


ENVY

by xchasingmoonlightx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Eaters, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Good Death Eaters, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Rape, Seizures, Self-Harm, Stalking, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xchasingmoonlightx/pseuds/xchasingmoonlightx
Summary: Two years after Voldemort's defeat, there are whispers of another dark wizard rising to power. Despite the Ministry now lying in more capable hands, Wizarding Britain is left in shambles and even the most adept government officials are struggling to pick up the pieces and locate the missing war heroes.Hermione Granger is hungry to thrive in a post-war world and dreams of rising through the ranks at the Ministry of Magic. Hardened by the terrors of battle, she doesn't back down from the challenge of getting to the source of these rumors and defeating another dark wizard, 'The New Voldemort,' all over again. She sees it merely as an opportunity for advancement and political leverage to get exactly what she wants.After yet another late night in her office, she finds herself captured by one of his followers, and soon discovers that it's not power that this new dark wizard is after.It's her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 28
Kudos: 72





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Mind the tags and content warnings, seriously!**
> 
> Alpha love to [bellaaa_a](https://linktr.ee/bellaaa_a) and [wh0re4theo](https://www.wattpad.com/user/wh0re4theo)
> 
> Beta love to bellaaa_a 
> 
> You can find the Spotify playlist for ENVY, as well as my other social links [here](https://linktr.ee/xchasingmoonlightx)

These violent delights  
have violent ends

and in their triumph die

like fire and powder,  
which, as they kiss, consume

the sweetest honey  
is loathsome in his own  
deliciousness,

and in the taste  
confounds the appetite

therefore love moderately  
long love doth so

**Romeo & Juliet**  
**Act II, Scene VI**

* * *

** 15 June 2000 - 6:30 p.m. ** ** ** ** **

The deafening silence of the bleak, marble room was broken only by the repetitious strikes of the Chief Warlock's gavel against the mahogany sounding block. What began as piercing cracks that reverberated into low, bassy vibrations quickly lent way to the metallic clinking of rustling chains and rusty pulleys that forced a human-sized cage to ascend from the floor in the center of the room.

Approximately fifty witches and wizards – some as young as twenty years old, and some as old as one hundred and three – were perched on the edges of their benches, their desks framing the perimeter of the courtroom. Robes of plum with silver embroidered _W_ _'s_ were the only pops of color in the otherwise dispiriting chamber that was drenched in hues of black and grey, and every notch in their mahogany desks or crack in the marble tiles seeped with death and despair.

No matter their age, race, size, or blood status, each and every member of the Wizengamot leered down the curves of their noses at the man who desperately clung to the oxidized bars of the cage as though his decaying, metal confine was his last hope for life.

When the rattling cage was settled and the death knell of the Chief Warlock's gavel had ceased, there was only a moment of contemptuous silence that filled the room once more.

"The disciplinary hearing on this day, fifteenth of June, for offenses committed by one Gregory Frederick Goyle The Second, resident of Matlock, Derbyshire," the voice of newly-appointed Chief Warlock Dedalus Diggle successfully filled every corner of the room, his voice clear and confident with each spoken syllable. "Shall commence."

On a low bench toward the back of the cold tribunal, a plum-clad Rita Skeeter was acting as the official Court Scribe, her beady eyes darting between Chief Warlock Diggle and the felon in the eroding enclosure. While her fingers danced across the typewriter in front of her, the dainty clicks echoing when Diggle took pauses in his speech, her familiar notepad and Quick Notes Quill floated behind her as it hungrily jotted down the juicier details.

This would be the first hearing of it's kind after the war.

"Unsurprisingly, we have been informed that the defendant lacks traditional representation or anyone willing to act as a character witness, and due to the unique nature of this case, there shall be no formal interrogations taking place," the Warlock's bravado slipped into a drawl in an attempt to mask his perfunctory efforts in remaining neutral. He plucked a solitary piece of parchment from his lectern and briefly ran his eyes down the printed words before setting it back down and returning his gaze to the presiding judiciary.

"The charges against the accused, that he did willingly and in full awareness of their legal ramifications, are as follows: one count of use of the Unforgivable Imperius Curse. Three counts of use of the Unforgivable Cruciatus Curse. One count of use of the Unforgivible Killing Curse. Five counts of violations against the Wizengamot Unforgivable Act of 1717."

The Warlock's eyes darted back down to his parchment as he took a deep breath before continuing, adjusting the tassel on his biretta.

"The defendant is, additionally, being charged for his actions as a byproduct of his active role as a Death Eater, serving under the infamous dark wizard by the name of Lord Voldemort, née Tom Marvolo Riddle." There was a unanimous ripple of discomfort through the room, caused by the liberal use of not one, but both, of _His_ names. Even two years after the war, many found themselves still in the thick of dealing with the after-effects; no one, not even the members of the _all-powerful_ Wizengamot, were immune to the expanse of the psychological and physical trauma that had been left in Voldemort's wake, even after his body was cold and decayed to nothing but bone.

"Further charges include one count of attempted murder. One count criminal trespassing on school grounds with minors present. Possession of illegal dark artifacts, as well as the misuse of illegal dark artifacts... And finally– "

The Chief Warlock's concentration was momentarily broken by the sound of one, singular inhale that was shallow and sharp enough to be unmistakable for that of the beginning stages of hyperventilation. Entirely unconcerned with the mental and emotional welfare of the accused, Dedalus Diggle only took a momentary lapse from the fluidity of his speech. Stout, pink fingers that were covered with dried blood and cracked skin stretched past the bars of the cage, flexing each digit as a means to ground himself before pulling back and returning his white-knuckle grip to the bars. Despite having only been arrested on the previous Sunday evening, anyone who had seen Gregory Goyle in his years at Hogwarts would be hard-pressed to find any similarities in that boy and the man who presently stood before the Wizarding World's highest court.

After a lifetime of his family's servitude to _He Who Must Not Be Named_ , followed by two years of running from every auror and auror-trainee that the Ministry of Magic could employ in their post-war efforts, the law had finally caught up to him. And yet, none of it appeared to have comparatively taken the same physical toll that less than four days in Azkaban had.

"–Your final, and possibly most damning charge in the eyes of our magical law: three counts of first-degree violations of the International Statute of Secrecy of 1692," he decreed over a room that would have been deadly quiet had it not been for the accelerating taps of an enchanted typewriter. "It says here that you were taken into custody on Sunday, the eleventh of June by auror-trainee Ronald Bilius Weasley at 7:52 p.m. at a muggle restaurant located in Matlock by the name of The Shalimar. Is this correct?"

If the tension in the chamber hadn't been so high, all of the trial witnesses easily could have heard the bustling sounds of the Ministry floors above, but such tension made it to where the only thing that could be heard through the silence was the irregular thrumming of one's own heart. For the first time since the proceedings began, Diggle allowed his eyes to wander, intently scanning the room before finally settling on a freckled face with fiery orange hair.

"Mr. Weasley," Diggle called out the name of the auror-trainee with practiced care, "could you please tell the court of your accounts of this past Sunday?"

Ron affirmatively tilted his chin before rising to a ramrod stance in front of his seat, passing only a cursory glance to the future Mrs. Granger-Weasley seated at his flank. "My assigned battalion of The Department of Magical Law Enforcement already happened to be tending to another call in Derbyshire– a dual effort between our department and The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures when I, personally, received sealed mail written on official Ministry stationery from an unmarked owl."

"And the contents of that mysterious letter?" The Warlock implored.

Weasley took a deep breath and shifted his weight from his right leg to his left before settling back to center. "The letter detailed the recent whereabouts of the defendant. It gave us– " he cleared his throat. "– _me_ , invaluable insight to what had become of Goyle's new daily life, which led me to The Shalimar, where he was having dinner with a muggle woman and what our department assumed to be her family– "

"Serena," Whispered a broken and penitent voice coming from the shadows of the metal enclosure.

The Chief Warlock's gavel returned to the sounding block with another shattering collision. "Now that we have you in our custody, I recommend you remain quiet unless you'd like to prolong your trial and return to Azkaban in the interim, Mr. Goyle?" Diggle posed the rhetorical question with just as much incisiveness as his gavel– fully aware of and boastful in the fact that he was the only wizard with the power to legally act on his threats, which he saw as only a modicum of the deserved justice in the grand scheme of the war's aftermath.

"As you were saying, Mr. Weasley," Diggle reconvened. "You found the defendant at a muggle dining establishment with a muggle family?"

Ron nodded again, and despite his otherwise intrepid demeanor, the faint lines that formed shallow creases between his brows and the darkening under his eyes told the story of a man who'd seen the worst of the war– one that still suffered from many sleepless nights and highly-detailed, reality-shattering flashbacks that frequently coaxed him into reliving his darkest memories and worst fears. His new fiancée wore identical fine lines and tired eyes, and if the missing third to the Golden Trio hadn't been at a meeting with the Headmistress of Hogwarts, the attendants of the trial could see that he bore similar marks to that of his friends– even if they were less noticeable in comparison to his scar.

"That's correct, sir," the auror-trainee confirmed. "And I heard his confession with my own two ears. The memory was taken into custody by The Department of Magical Law Enforcement where it was deemed that the memory hadn't been tampered with."

"And the details of that memory?" Sturgis Podmore called from the bench to the right of Diggle's, and suddenly, unsurprisingly, all eyes became glued to him. Aside from The Chief Warlock, Podmore's tenor voice was the first of the Wizengamot members to break through the heavy, volatile ether of the courtroom.

Weasley took a brief pause, swallowing, obviously expecting for contents of the accused's arrest to have already been divulged. "It appeared that it was a dinner of the celebratory sort. Goyle's companion was showing off a ring to her assumed parents when I arrived."

"And then what happened, Mr. Weasley?" Diggle asked, growing terse and impatient. "Please provide the court with the details of his violation of The Statute of Secrecy. We care not for the intricacies of his personal life."

Weasley blinked before containing, obviously biting back the urge to roll his eyes or make a comment at the Warlock's remark. "The woman's parents had been trying to get the attention of the wait staff for several minutes, trying to get help with uncorking a bottle of wine. I also happened to find out that it appeared that the label belonged to a prominent goblin-owned distillery," he added, making note of the fact that Goyle had brought an item of magical origin out into the muggle world. "After several wait staff passed them, I witnessed the defendant cast wandless magic that uncorked the bottle."

Diggle raised a brow. "And you're certain they saw it?"

"Yes," Ron confirmed. "And they were obviously confused, but not outwardly questioning anything. Probably just assumed their eyes were playing tricks on them. It wasn't until his assumed fiancée told the older couple that Mr. Goyle had news to share that I thought anything was going to happen– "

More sounds of sniffling and shallow cries slipped from the bars in the center of the room.

"Rather than going home or waiting for privacy, Goyle cast more wandless magic that floated the bottle off the table and had it pour into each of their glasses."

Podmore sat to the side of his chair, right elbow leaning into his lectern while his left palm flattened an invisible wrinkle in his robes, all the while eyeing Diggle for each and every non-verbal reaction that he produced in the face of the presented information. Strangely enthralled.

"At this point, it was evident that the woman already knew of his wizarding status based on the way she had no initial reaction. Instead, she smiled at her parents and watched theirs. After a few minutes of not saying anything, probably stunned more than anything else, all Goyle could do was nod and tell them that it was true," Ron continued, painting the scene with gestures and waves of his hands and shifts in his body weight. Podmore's eyes noticeably flicked to Weasley's side, peering at his fiancée and assessing the way that her reactions to the tale were becoming just as visceral and animated to that of her fiancé– but her body language told a completely different story; she wore the look of a woman who was employing every last thread of self control in order to stay still.

"Miss Granger, is there anything you'd like to add?" Sturgis' calm tenor pierced another bout of quietness haunting the chamber, and while his inquiry was innocent at a surface level, the familiar waves of movement of a discomforted Wizengamot returned. Her future husband made a similar motion and turned back to look at her, her face now pale and stricken with uncertainty. Her mouth gaped as if she was about to speak before glancing up at the redhead before her and momentarily closing it again.

After the length of a single heartbeat, her brows knitted together and she stood up straight, just as Ronald had done, making eye contact with the judiciary opposite to her. Her fiancé made another uncomfortable movement, only this one was barely detectable to most in the room.

"I think that, perhaps, it would be worth paying more attention to the blood status of his partner," she replied, her voice self-assured and carrying high into the ceiling of the room before raining down into the ears of the accused like a shower of hope. A light at the end of the tunnel for the Death Eater, but a veritable augury for the surrounding wizards and witches of the law.

"Elaborate, Miss Granger," Diggle grumbled, passing a resentful looking frown onto his peer.

"Would it not stand to reason that he no longer believes in maintaining blood purity? A Death Eater that was still steadfast in his beliefs would not willingly associate with a muggleborn, let alone a full-on muggle," she replied with full conviction. "And no one in this room can deny that if it hadn't been for the likes of Narcissa Malfoy betraying her loyalties, then our current reality would be very different– "

"Narcissa Malfoy was never a Death Eater. She bore no Dark Mark."

"And yet she's still on your _list_ , Dedalus!" Hermione bit back at him without any sort of hesitation, but she couldn't take the time to ride the high of defiance or to savor the way the attendants stirred at her audacity to question authority, because just as quickly as she'd come back with a response to Diggle, she was met with the gaunt visage of Gregory Goyle, who had turned around to look at her.

"Granger-" he called out for her in a low volume. "Granger, he's-"

The all-too-familiar bang of Diggle's gavel filled the farthest reaches of the room again. "I've heard _enough_!" The Chief Warlock spat to the attendants over the slope of his lectern, his eyes locked on the young war heroes. "I shouldn't have deigned to hearing statements about the actions of a known Death Eater," he continued. "And to hear it from the mouths of the people who directly aided in his leader's destruction?" The surrounding judiciary made quiet mumbles in agreement. "Please take your seats before you're removed."

Ron started to speak, obviously inundated with resentment from the implication that he would _defend_ Gregory Goyle, but Hermione was quick to grab his arm and shoot him a look that told him to stay quiet as she pulled the two of them back down to their seats.

"Due to the egregious nature of the defendant's crimes, this trial was to act solely as a formality for the purposes of documentation. He was not to receive any sort of defense, and quite frankly, I am _disgusted_ that there seem to be sympathizers among us today." Diggle drew his speech out for as long as he could, taking time to individually hold the gaze of everyone in the room, driving in his points as he spoke.

"I am prepared to formally charge and sentence this young man to the fullest extent of the law, and– "

"IT'S THE ENVY!" The ragged voice of the convicted Death Eater tore past the metallic, mechanical buzz of his cage beginning to sink. "Please! I'll tell you anything you want to know!" He begged with every shred of composure now entirely absent and turned to dust. "Please! It's– "

But Diggle had no time to spare for the words of a traitor of his fellow man and wizardkind. Without missing a beat and without consulting his fellow justices, he barreled toward Goyle's sentencing. "With the power vested in me, granted by the most honorable high court of the Wizengamot under the British Ministry of Magic, I, Chief Warlock Dedalus Diggle find Gregory Frederick Goyle The Second guilty on all charges. He is to return to Azkaban where he will immediately be executed by way of Dementor's Kiss."

As the rusted chains continued unfurling, rhythmically ticking like a clock with each clink, the cage and the distraught man that it contained disappeared, sinking into the cold, marble flooring whence it came.

The Chief Warlock struck his gavel against the sounding block one, final time and it was quite possibly the loudest sound that anyone in that room had ever heard.


	2. one

** 4 September 2000 - 7:26 a.m. **

The side of Hermione's Ministry-regulated pump absently tapped against the tile floor in time with the jazzy tune coming from the enchanted gramophone in corner of the room. With her legs crossed at the ankle and her spine rectilinear against the squashed cushioning of the chair back, she alternated between chewing on her lip and chewing on the end of her muggle pen as she made addendums to the notes in her lap. Having sat in Kingsley's aggressively beige waiting room for the past twenty minutes, Hermione had long-since forgotten the awestruck stare that Kingsley's intern greeted her with when she finally ripped her eyes away from the latest issue of _The Daily Prophet_ after Hermione had said, "Hermione Granger, checking in for a 7:30 a.m. meeting with Minister Shacklebolt."

On the lap of her grey pencil skirt sat the future; a proposal of promise and growth that she hoped would propel their world past the trauma of the Second Wizarding War. Past their centuries old prejudices. Past the past itself.

Having witnessed Goyle's trial and subsequent execution stirred something in her, reigniting a supressed wish to expand upon her efforts of overturning archaic legislation beyond those which only surrounded magical creatures. On the day that he was sentenced, Hermione put in her request for a transfer from The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to The Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not wanting to become an auror, she was entirely over qualified for the simple desk job that she'd applied for; however, it was only one of two positions that were available and she wasn't going to abuse her name and reputation to obtain the higher role which she wasn't qualified for. Then, exactly one week after her transfer request, she found herself among a group of five D.M.L.E. new hires at the security checkpoint of Azkaban Prison awaiting to witness the execution of the first wanted Death Eater taken into custody after the war.

She'd meant what she said at his 'trial,' – if one could even call it that – that a _true_ Death Eater wouldn't have willingly disappeared to live out the rest of their life mixing with muggles in more ways than one. The idea would have sickened even the most radically liberal-minded pureblood; even someone as enthralled with muggle culture as the late Arthur Weasley wouldn't have relinquished the comforts of the Wizarding World. Suffice to say that she didn't believe that the old Hogwarts bully's intentions were born of malice. No, she believed, _truly believed,_ that he'd abandoned his outdated convictions. That he'd grown.

In a strange way, she was inspired. And she took full advantage of the newfound inspiration by drafting a revision to The International Statute of Secrecy that would completely eradicate an immediate death sentence for those who intentionally violated it. The truth was that Goyle _had_ violated it intentionally, however, it was because he wanted to marry a muggle woman and he couldn't reasonably hide his magic forever – not because he'd wanted to reveal the existence of the magical world onto the shoulders of a muggle family of inconsequential status. Within the current statute, there was a clause that made an exception for romantic relationships, but the fine print stated that the exception merely extended to the wedded spouse of a witch or wizard. Needless to say, his three counts of violations against the I.S.S. were, veritably, a triple death sentence.

Of course, being the proficient and thorough witch that she was, she'd also made a few minor tweaks to other subsections of the statute, but that was neither here nor there.

"Miss Granger," the robust voice pulled her preoccupied mind from her note cards with a warm greeting. She looked up to Minister Shacklebolt who was wearing dark green robes and a blinding smile, his hand extending to shake hers. She returned his handshake and smile in earnest, genuinely excited to see the man that she considered to be an old friend for the first time in months. Typically, it wasn't difficult for any member of the Golden Trio to secure a private meeting with the Minister for Magic, but the months following the first live capture and successful execution of a war criminal from the Ministry's Wanted List proved to be far more headache-inducing than originally anticipated. "It's been far too long, but I feel that congratulations are in order in regards to your new position."

She thanked him as they walked back to his office together, the color palette a continuation of the beige assault from the waiting room. The excuse that the intern gave was that remodels were soon to be underway, but the shades of tan arrived at the office shortly after Kingsley had, and Hermione simply deduced that the man liked a colorful wardrobe and less colorful surroundings. When he grinned and motioned for her to sit in the chair across from his desk, she complied and pulled the absolute _brick_ of legislation from her bag before shuffling her note cards. "I take it you didn't receive the rewrite I sent to you via owl last week? I haven't received a response," she started, already prepared to cut through the pleasantries and get to business. She knew that Minister Shacklebolt was a busy man and she didn't want to waste either of their time by being British and lingering on a discussion about the weather.

"I did, actually," he replied with the megawatt smile still plastered on his face. "I must say, I took pity on the owl that had to carry it until I saw that you'd cast a featherlight charm on the papers – but what else could be expected from the brightest witch of her age?" His compliment was genuine as he leaned into his desk on his elbows, hands clasped in front of his face. "I _am_ curious, Hermione," he started again after the brief pause, allowing his smile to fall for the first time that day. "Why now? Why after Gregory Goyle of all people?"

It wasn't for Goyle. It wasn't for Lucius Malfoy or Augustus Rockwood or any other Death Eater whose corpse had been found in the last twelve months; nor were her efforts exclusively for the lifeless bodies of Arthur Weasley or Rubeus Hagrid or the still-missing members of the Order that had disappeared after the war. Her dedication was for no one in particular and for everyone all at once. Her reasoning was that there had to have been more Death Eaters hiding in the shadows that had reformed their views, and she had an unshakeable suspicion that at least _some_ of them would know the locations of the missing Order members. She had a feeling that if this law was altered or repealed in Goyle's name – even posthumously – that it would show the Ministry's willingness to give a little if it meant finding the missing people.

"It sends a message," her answer was polite, yet concise. Despite their acquaintanceship and fighting alongside one another, she still felt the need to reel in her fiery, Gryffindor assertiveness. It was a rare occasion, possibly rare enough that she could count every time she'd done it on one hand; Hermione Granger cowered to no one. But Kingsley Shacklebolt was just as tenacious _and_ he was presently the only wizard that held the power to present her case before the Wizengamot, and since she had just become a lowly desk jockey at the D.M.L.E., his co-signing of her efforts would mean the difference between a repeal and a laugh in the face. "All of the missing Order members have been gone for over two years now. If the Ministry showed willingness to change one of it's most damning laws, even if it doesn't specifically pertain to them, then perhaps at least _one_ of them would be willing to come forward with information on the whereabouts of the missing people if they knew it wouldn't immediately mean a death sentence."

Her breath caught in her throat, the same as it always did when her eyes caught a flash of the posters pinned to Kingsley's back office wall. It was a pair of posters that she'd seen thousands of times since the Order declared victory – no matter how shallow that victory had seemed in retrospect. They were two posters; a matching set with white backgrounds, black letters in a plain font, and bright, red headlines.

** WANTED **

Antonin Dolohov  
 ~~Gregory Goyle~~  
Igor Karkaroff  
Walden Macnair  
Draco Malfoy  
 ~~Lucius Malfoy~~  
Narcissa Malfoy  
Graham Montague  
Theodore Nott  
Pansy Parkinson  
Adrian Pucey  
 ~~Augustus Rockwood~~  
Blaise Zabini

** MISSING WAR HEROES **

Lavender Brown  
Cho Chang  
 ~~Rubeus Hagrid~~  
Neville Longbottom  
Luna Lovegood  
 ~~Cormac McLaggen~~  
Padma Patil  
Cassius Warrington  
 ~~Arthur Weasley~~

Immediately following the war, they'd been plastered onto nearly every flat surface all across Wizarding Britain, and by the end of the first week every single witch, wizard, goblin, and house elf had the names on both lists committed to memory to the point of not having to even _think_ about the posters from the names being burned into the backs of their minds.

As the weeks came and went, and as the months trudged along with little success in locating the missing people... After Arthur was the first body that had been found with the initials 'N.V.' carved into his face... when posters started to fall from where they'd been pinned – either due to weather, age, or vandalism – they'd stop being efficiently replaced, and then they'd just stopped being replaced entirely. She hated them. She hated the reason that they existed – and just when she thought she couldn't hate them more than she already did, her hate grew tenfold each time another body was found and a slash was added through another name.

She loathed the fact that Narcissa Malfoy, the woman who'd saved her best friend's life and single-handedly turned the tide of the final battle, was on the list of wanted war criminals. It was just as The Chief Warlock had said: Narcissa Malfoy bore no Dark Mark. So why was she listed among the rest of the names who represented evil incarnate? According to Kingsley, she was guilty by association. Said that she took the coward's route by standing with her family and housing Voldemort until the final hour, and even when she _did_ make that final decision, he feels that she took it out of necessity rather than morality.

With consideration for the Ministry's thought process, one name placement that she found as equally confusing as Narcissa's was that of Cassius Warrington. Unlike Narcissa, Cassius _was_ a Marked Death Eater. The only difference was that, in the proverbial eleventh hour, he'd decided to fight on the opposite side of the battlefield alongside the Order. How is it that invisible lines that had been etched in flagstone played a larger role in a post-war witchhunt than the _actions_ of the people that had fought?

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Hermione," Shacklebolt's tone grew defensive as he raised a brow, staring at her whilst returning to lean back into his seat. "I understand that you're just a girl, but two years is hardly any time at all! We can't just give up on locating our missing heroes!"

Hermione resented that claim, _just a girl._ She was twenty now. She had a career. She fought and subsequently won a war – a victory that would _not_ have been claimed by the Order if it hadn't been for her. She trained her expression to stay calm and neutral; she knew that the moment she let the lion free was when she'd be dismissed.

"I wasn't saying we should give up on finding anyone, Kingsley," she took a deep breath to reel herself back in. "I just think that it might be sensible to preserve and reallocate the already limited resources available to us. The investigations on the missing people are at a standstill!"

Any remaining hint of a smile or jovial gleam in Shacklebolt's eyes was long gone. "I'll have you know that, yes, while the public investigations have slowed, our private investigators are making great strides. Not that it's any of your business, seeing that you've only _just_ started at the D.M.L.E.– "

All Hermione heard were the words of someone who doubted her.

"–but the P.I.'s have reason to believe that they're all being held captive together, which certainly means we're _just_ around the corner from finding them all!" During his speech, he'd risen from his chair and leaned over his desk – literally talking down to her. "It's to my understanding that you wish to make a lifetime career here at the Ministry, Miss Granger?"

She nodded slowly, face still eerily void of emotion.

"Then you have to learn to do things the Ministry way," he bit out. "We started losing our friends and family during that war, and we haven't stopped losing them since. Surely if the roles were reversed and _you_ were missing, you'd like for equal efforts to be applied in locating you?"

It was a rhetorical question. She wanted to answer it and give some sort of verbal defiance, but instead, she rose from her seat just as he did. With one last look, she dropped her personal copy of the statute revision on his desk with a loud thud, followed by neatly placing her addended note cards on top.

"You'll have to excuse me, Minister Shacklebolt, but I have to get to my desk," she growled irritably, finally letting out only a small fraction of the anger that she wanted to – just enough to take off the edge of what would have been a meltdown of epic proportions if she'd let it boil over.  
She turned away from him and started toward the door, but as soon as her fingertips brushed the doorknob, Kingsley called for her attention again.

"Hermione," he said with a sigh.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath before turning her head in a half-hearted attempt to look over her shoulder.

"What happened to you?" He asked.

Hermione's mouth gaped momentarily before clamping back together again. Was this supposed to be another rhetorical question? "Sorry?" She asked.

"Toward the end of the war, I'd really begun to admire how much you'd matured. I saw the potential for greatness in you," he led with genuine intention but his voice quickly trailed off into a soft hesitancy. "But you've lost your faith."

She spun around to look at him again, this time with her face twisted into a scowl and her hands crossed at her chest as if to guard herself from the uncomfortable, erratic thrumming of her heart. " _Excuse_ me?"

"I know that in your heart you believe you're doing the right thing, but," his soft despondency grew into something more irate. "Fighting for the rights of people who were responsible for the death of your loved ones and fantasized about _your_ death on a daily basis isn't the right thing. They don't deserve humanity or decency or second chances."

"I'm not trying to give them humanity or decency – I'm fully aware of what they've done and what they fought for," she said, struggling to douse the flames that licked at her chest. "I was trying to help the Ministry approach the efforts at a new angle. To get the upper hand against the very people that you're so afraid of– "

"And you're _not_ afraid of them?"

It was another question that didn't beg for an answer. So they just stared at each other. What started as a pleasant, hopeful conversation quickly devolved into passionate shouting and thinly-veiled back-handed remarks. The only sound that filled the air was the faint tune of the jazzy gramophone leaking into the room from the crack under the door.

"No," she replied. The word was sharp and definitive and cut through the heavy atmosphere like a hot knife through butter.

"I respect your vision and your leadership, Minister Shacklebolt, but admitting to fear is tantamount to admitting defeat. I have lived through terrors that any other witch my age couldn't even imagine." Memories of blood, open wounds, curses, and visions of the dead and dying flashed behind her retinas; her pulse quickened while her lungs tightened, and it was times like these that she swore she could still feel a faint trace of the tip of a dagger against her skin.

"I fought," she said with a shaky breath. "Every single day since I found out that I was a witch, I fought." She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse with a harsh tug, revealing the pink scar on her arm that had never fully healed. "And I _won._ I won't let anyone take that from me."

Another bout of silent, unsure stares ensued, but when Hermione moved to turn back to the door, she caught the sight of Kingsley shaking his head in her peripheral vision. In the expanse of a single second, she battled with herself on whether to stay and argue or to leave and give the topic some space before vowing to return to it later.

"I admire your passion and I understand your angle, but you're not comprehending the position that this puts me in. How would it look for me to promote a revision of legislation that only appeared to _help_ the Death Eaters? Especially after finding out that the previous administration had Death Eaters and dark wizards on staff?"

"No one would believe that you're trying to help them! People respect you and know that you have our world's best interests at– "

"If I were to co-sign on a law with your name on it, my judgment would immediately be placed under scrutiny!" He spat with venom-laced articulation.

She felt a knot form in the back of her throat. "What?"

The Minister sighed, shutting his eyes and drawing in another deep inhale as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one here denies your passion and your vision for a squeaky clean future, but, Hermione," he slumped back into his chair. "Your S.P.E.W. proposal last year? Your proposed revision to the laws surrounding werewolves this past Spring?"

She instinctively reached for the pendant around her neck that Lupin had given her before the Battle of Hogwarts. Round and ivory-colored, it was enchanted to reflect the phases of the moon. He'd told her – that just in case anything happened to him – to give it to Teddy when he was old enough to care for it properly. After a brief argument about his predicted fate, she reluctantly took it.

"And now– " he picked up the handful of the papers that she'd dropped on his desk, only to dramatically drop them back down again. "–This?"

"Certainly you're not implying that my drive for change is a detriment to either of our reputations– "

"I'm saying that your varied and frequent changes of focus make it look like you never _actually_ dedicate yourself to anything! That you take on pet projects and abandon them the moment you find some other noble cause to adopt!" He let out a humorless laugh. "And maybe it was fine when you were fifteen and looking for the topic of your next school project, but this isn't Hogwarts, Hermione!" He slapped his palms against his desk and the vibrations sent a quill floating down to the floor. "This is the real world. These are real people, with real lives, and real consequences. We can't afford to be wrong this time."

Hermione reluctantly conceded. She understood how she appeared on the outside looking in, but they were wrong. Why couldn't she have multiple and varied passions for justice? Why had she gained a reputation for being a bleeding heart that shouldn't be taken seriously? She'd done everything she was supposed to do; she had finished school, gotten a respectable job, gotten engaged, and then there was the small detail of saving the bloody world! It only felt natural for her to continue her efforts in improving wizarding society in any way she could.

With a mutual, disingenuous apology from the both of them, they retrained their faces with half-hearted smiles and limply shook hands before Hermione made her exit and headed back to the second floor.

* * *

Hermione felt her insides twist every time she entered her office or turned in her chair and was forced to greet the posters that were required in every office at the D.M.L.E. After a while, they'd shifted from dual beacons of hope to cruel reminders of their harsh reality. Each new slash that was added made her heart sink, and each slash only made her revisit the past.

The most recent body had been found six weeks before Goyle's trial: Death Eater Augustus Rockwood. He was found outside of Kingsley's office, but was discovered by his previous secretary. He'd been wearing his old Unspeakable uniform that he'd acquired when he took his job in The Department of Mysteries before the First Wizarding War, and there was no sign of how he'd made it inside the Ministry – let alone outside of the Minister's office. There were no traces of magic on his corpse, or the initials that had been carved into his face.

Seven weeks before that saw the bodies of Lucius Malfoy and Cormac McLaggen. An independent bounty hunter had found them outside of one of the Malfoy's French estates, and their discovery had only raised more questions than it had answered. It was such a strange combination of people to find together, and there seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to why they were in France. When they'd been discovered, the D.M.L.E. had instantly dispatched a battalion in cooperation with the French Ministry in an effort to find more clues, but their efforts had been futile and turned up nothing. Much like Rockwood, they wore the same mutilated letters on their skin that contained no magic.

Arthur Weasley was the first one, almost a year ago. Mrs. Weasley's manic depressive episodes surrounding his disappearance after the Battle of Hogwarts had only _just_ started to dull into the occasional panic attack with long stretches of lethargy in between. Following the war, Hermione moved into the Burrow with Ron, Molly, and George. Since Ginny had opted to move into Grimmauld Place with Harry, Hermione wanted to show support to her future mother-in-law by being an ever-present figure in what was, undoubtedly, the hardest time that Molly had ever faced. Much like she'd done for Hermione and Harry.

Ron and Hermione were relieved when they'd gone three nights in a row without George waking them up in the early hours of the morning with their mum having an inconsolable panic attack. By the time she'd made it two whole weeks, she had offered to host an engagement party for her son and Hermione, swearing that she felt good and that 'a bit of merriment' would lift her spirits even more.

And it did.

Everyone that they'd invited had come, and for the span of a few hours, life almost felt... normal.

Harry and Ginny had opted to stay at the Burrow that night. Along with the newly-engaged couple, they stayed up late laughing and crying and eating the leftovers from the party until they'd all fell asleep on the living room floor with faint smiles on their faces. 

The next morning, they'd all woken to the eardrum shattering screams tearing through Ginny's throat. When her family got up to find her, she was frozen in the threshold of the front door, looking down at the body of her father whose face was covered in blood that hadn't had the opportunity to dry.

Harry had discovered Hagrid on the steps to Grimmauld Place in an identical fashion the following evening.

Since the most recent discovery, tension from the trio had run high. Simple, casual conversation was impossible to come by, and there frequently were times when Hermione felt entirely alone. So, she did the only thing she knew how to do: she dove head first into her work.

  
Being that she wasn't allowed to cover up the posters, she decided to redecorate. At the time, she thought that if other things cluttered her walls, she'd be less likely to focus on the names and the memories. But instead, her simple office that had been, at one point colored in shades of blue, turned into a shrine of black and white newspaper clippings with one central topic: _The_ _Envy_. 

It had taken mere weeks after the dust settled on the Battle of Hogwarts for the rumors of a new dark wizard to surface. At the time, they were just that: rumors. No formal reports or verified sightings had been filed at the D.M.L.E., so the Ministry saw no reason to pay any mind to the whispers. Sure, the wizarding community was facing the issue of the missing people, but most presumed that they'd all turn up eventually. Many had even scoffed when they heard the rumors of _'The Next Voldemort,'_ – a title that made Ron and Harry had roll their eyes.

But when the discovery of Rockwood's body made the news, _The Daily Prophet_ had printed the name in big, bold letters on their headline: **THE NEW VOLDEMORT?**

After several days of publications and articles surrounding the topic, the press had adopted the anonymous killer's chosen initials and utilized it as a shorthand. What started as 'The Next Voldemort' turned into 'The New Voldemort' which naturally transitioned into 'N.V.' It didn't take long for people verbally discussing the topic to start speaking the initials – especially in quick or hushed discussions – and once the newest iteration of the faceless dark wizard's moniker caught on, the name ' _The Envy'_ was born.

Unlike the _real_ Voldemort, the general population of Wizarding Britain seemed to have no qualms with saying the Envy's name out loud; and much unlike the real Voldemort, Hermione found herself struggling with saying the name. She felt that it made everything more real. A harsher threat. She finally agreed that there was power in a name, and she didn't want to give power to a wizard that was already skilled enough to capture people in battle without a trace, hold them hostage for months on end, and then flagrantly start killing them and distributing their bodies with a hand-carved, bloody signature.

Hermione stared at the newspaper clippings, and more often than not, she felt like they were staring back at her. Furrowing her brow and curling her lip at the name that covered the perimeter of the room, she clenched her fists at her side and felt a renewed sense of determination course through her veins.

She hated failure, but she hated people assuming her failure just as much.

Kingsley wanted her to focus on one project at a time? He wanted her to do things _'The Ministry Way'_?

Fine.

Hermione Jean Granger was not going to let a silly little name scare her any longer. She'd already fought and won against the darkest wizard that anyone had ever seen before. She'd done it once, and she'll do it again.

She was going to find him.


	3. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief disclaimer, the beginning of the flashback scene in this chapter borrows a few lines directly from the pages of The Prisoner of Azkaban in order to maintain continuity.

** 6 June 1994 - 9:07 p.m. **

"Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?" Malfoy said with a high-pitched laugh, motioning toward Hagrid's Hut and pointing at the hippogriff chained to the exterior. "And that oaf is supposed to be our teacher? _Please_ _!_ If he can hardly save that infernal chicken from decapitation, then what's the point of being up ol' Dumbledore's arse anyway?"

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled in their familiar, doltish way as they passed a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans back and forth between themselves. When it was Crabbe's turn to take the box, he tipped it back and tilted his head, catching the last few beans in his mouth, careless as to their flavor. In his peripheral vision, he caught the sight of three Gryffindors barreling directly toward them.

"Err, Malfoy, is that Potter and– "

Harry and Ron both stomped into the trio of Slytherins, pointedly shooting furious glares toward Malfoy. Livid with the way the blond spoke about their favorite teacher and friend, they cracked their knuckles and knew that didn't have to look at one another to know that they were about to put Malfoy in his place.

But somehow, Hermione marched past them, her hair whipping behind her from the harsh pace of her gait. Just as soon as it registered in the boys' minds that she'd left them trailing her, she had already made her way to stand directly in front of Malfoy. He crossed his arms and smirked down at her.

"You don't scare me, mudbl– "

SMACK!

She had slapped Malfoy across the face with all the strength she could muster. Malfoy staggered. Harry, Ron, Crabbe, and Goyle stood flabbergasted as Hermione raised her hand again.

"Don't you _dare_ call Hagrid pathetic you foul– you evil– "

"Hermione!" said Ron weakly and he tried to grab her hand as she swung it back again.

"Get _off_ _,_ Ron!"

Hermione pulled out her wand. Malfoy stepped backward. Crabbe and Goyle looked at him for instructions, thoroughly bewildered.

"C'mon," Malfoy muttered to his henchmen, and before all three of them had disappeared into a passageway that led to the dungeons, Hermione caught a glimpse of him rubbing the pink handprint on his face.

 _"Hermione_!" Ron said again, sounding both stunned and impressed.

She crossed her arms and allowed her honey-colored eyes to dash between her two friends, waiting for them to protest. "Well?" She asked. "It's not like either of you were going to do anything other than whine about him like you always do."

At the exact moment that Ron began to deliver his protest, Hermione saw another emerald-clad body peering out from behind a pillar up the hill. It was only a face that she'd seen once or twice, and she wasn't sure she'd ever heard his name before, but she also knew that if he'd been keen on helping Malfoy then he would've come out and confronted them already.

"-And how are we supposed to help Hagrid if we're all in detention for fighting with the Slytherins? Especially when one of them is already pretending to have a broken arm!" Harry scolded her. Distracted by the snooping Slytherin, she hadn't caught the first half of Harry's chiding, and to be quite fair, she'd hardly managed the last half, too.

"Are you two going to see Hagrid or not?" She asked, making a point to not look back at the unidentified boy as to not draw any attention to his lurking.

Harry and Ron stood stiff, confusion painted across their faces when they processed what she'd said. "You're not coming with us, 'Mione?" Ron asked.

She shook her head. "I forgot about a homework assignment I need to finish – but I'll catch up with you both later."

The boys exchanged equally dubious looks before shrugging their shoulders and stumbling down the hill toward the hut. "I can't believe that Hermione of all people had forgotten about an assignment," she'd heard Harry say as she made for the opposite direction over the hill and back to the castle.

As soon as she made it to the marble pillar, her Gryffindor bravery had almost entirely whittled away when she realized that the Slytherin boy hadn't cowered or attempted to hide himself. When she drew closer, she was almost certain that she recognized him as one of the fifth year boys who also played on the Slytherin Quidditch Team.

"Might I ask what your problem is- " she began, a threat to give him the same treatment as Malfoy on the tip of her tongue, but she was cut off from the shock of a wide palm extending toward her to shake in greeting.

"Cassius Warrington," he introduced himself with a sheepish grin. "I have to say, I'm a fan of your work," he tilted his head to the side, motioning to where she and the four other boys had congregated only moments ago. "But I do have to refuse an encore. I need to get to quidditch practice soon and I'd rather not spend it with an ice pack over my face."

She remained silent as she tentatively took his hand and gave it a cautious shake, finding no humor in what he'd just said. She wanted to ask him what sort of game he was playing at because any other Slytherin would have been chomping at the bit to hex her, or, if it had been Pansy Parkinson who'd witnessed it: two slaps. One for revenge and the other for good measure.

But before Hermione could get the words out, Cassius was already speaking again. "Malfoy's a right prat," he said with another unsure looking half-smile as he rubbed the back of his head. "Really, you did what I've been dying to do since he bought his way onto the quidditch team last year."

Nonplussed, Hermione blinked at him. She started to wonder if Malfoy really _had_ hexed her and if she'd just passed out, because there was no way that this _wasn't_ an unconscious fever dream.

"He took over the spot of someone who deserved it more than he did – not that my opinion matters, seeing as I'm a half-blood and all." Cassius gave another small chuckle before bringing his eyes up to meet her gaze again. "But I suppose that comes with the territory of having a rich father who calls Azkaban his second home."

Hermione snorted from disbelief at what the older boy was saying to her, but she was quick to pull herself together. She didn't want this boy with unclear loyalties thinking she trusted him. "Can I ask why you were hiding behind the pillar and watching us?" She tried to turn the conversation against him, still suspicious of his motives. For all she knew, there would be another group of Slytherins waiting to overhear her and use the conversation against her or her friends at a later date.

The space between his brows crinkled. "I was headed down for late night quidditch drills. Flint's orders. Is that not where Malfoy and his henchmen were headed?"

The Gryffindor wasn't quite sure how to respond. It was obvious that he didn't know about Buckbeak's execution, and she didn't care to go into detail explaining it. Time was of the essence and she had to get ready to meet with Harry later. So she shrugged, and hoped that it was a sufficient answer.

"Oh, alright." His hand returned to the back of his head, fingers nervously weaving through the dark blond hair before his lips curved into a hint of a genuine smile. "Although I suppose it doesn't matter now, seeing as he ran off like a coward."

Hermione just nodded and readjusted her satchel on her shoulder, uncomfortable with a Slytherin – a half-blood, but a Slytherin nonetheless – showing her warmth and kindness. "I'd better head off," she said.

She sidestepped him and started back in the direction of the main stairwell, but was stopped in her tracks again when she heard Cassius call back out for her.

"Granger, right?"

"Yes," she replied, hardly sparing a glance over her shoulder.

"Well," he gave a light sigh. "Thanks, Granger. See you around."

* * *

**4 September 2000 - 7:24 p.m.**

Shortly after arriving to Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Ron settled into the table in the dining room, opposite of Ginny and Harry's empty chairs.

While the hosts were busy putting on the final touches of dinner, Ron was flipping through a quidditch magazine and Hermione was thinking to herself about how badly she wished she was still in her office.

She'd taken all of the newspaper clippings off her wall before beginning the process of carefully arranging them all into a timeline; she was halfway done by the time Ron had come into her office and told her it was time to go, and she imagined that she would have been completing the task right around now if it hadn't been for the interruption.

Still, it was always lovely to see Harry and Ginny, and since Harry had just returned back to London from another meeting with McGonagall, she was excited to hear stories of how the Hogwarts staff was faring since his last visit.

Almost immediately, Hermione was struck by a pang of jealousy. She hadn't returned to Hogwarts since the war, and she was dispirited by Harry's lack of invitation for Ron and herself to join him – but she had to pause that thought because she'd had an equally important meeting with Kingsley that same morning. She'd just hoped that Harry's went better than hers did.

It wasn't much longer until Harry and Ginny stepped into the dining room with a parade of plates gracefully floating behind them. With a wave of Ginny's wand, the platters of food arranged themselves onto the table between the two couples, and Ron didn't have to be told twice to dig in.

They'd all recited the polite, customary conversation starters of ' _how was your day?'_ and ' _a_ _ny holidays planned soon?'_ before Ginny quickly turned to Hermione and started laying into her about her birthday plans.

Much to Ginny's disappointment, there were none.

"You can't just _not_ celebrate your birthday, Hermione," Harry smiled and teased her with an overly-dramatic impression of Molly Weasley before Ginny punched him in the arm and playfully told him to behave himself.

"I think I'll just go out for coffee and treat myself to a new book," she finally committed to the answer after the third time Ginny had pressed into her about the topic.

But really, Hermione didn't even want to do _that._ She didn't want to celebrate her birthday – or any holiday, for that matter – ever since the war. It felt wrong to be social and merry when people still had loved ones missing and many dead without a suspect for their murders. On top of that, there was the issue of her parents continuing to live in Australia, still completely oblivious to her existence.

She'd originally told herself that when the missing people were found and when Wizarding Britain was finally safe, she'd bring them back. Needless to say, that hadn't quite happened yet.

It didn't take long before the conversation between her fiancé and her two best friends turned to quidditch, so Hermione took a mental vacation and redirected her focus to the half-completed project that haphazardly hung from her office walls. There were a few articles where the date had accidentally been cut off, so she was having a hard time figuring out where to place them. But she knew she would work it out eventually, and once that part was over, she'd request copies of all of the auror reports that were made each time a new body was found.

Humans – wizard _or_ muggle – were, by nature, creatures of habit. Hermione took comfort in her hypothesis, that even if there wasn't any sort of methodical pattern to the reappearances, she'd still be able to find _some_ sort of subconscious patterns that would lead her in the right direction.

Now, she was just holding out hope that Harry's meeting earlier that day had something to do with the disappearances. When the conversation had finally come to a lull, Hermione took the opportunity to cut in.

"Harry?"

"Hm?" He asked, mouth full of chicken.

"Do you know if the D.M.L.E. is planning on doing anymore raids to find the Envy?" She asked, carefully training a neutral tone despite the blunt phrasing of her question.

Harry stared at her for a fraction of a second before blinking it away and taking another fork full of pasta to his mouth and shaking his head. Hermione's heart began to race at the prospect of finding out more information from him directly, but promptly sunk the moment she saw his eyes flicker.

Ron shot her a scathing glare from the seat next to her and she tried her best to ignore it. "I don't think this is the best dinner conversa–" between words, his eyes were flitting back and forth between Ginny and herself, and she wasn't surprised to see the youngest Weasley already so effected by the mention of the Envy's name.

It wasn't the wizard himself that struck fear into her heart. It was his actions and the way he presented the bodies of the dead heroes before returning them as a grisly reminder that he was still out there. Waiting.

It's just that... no one knew what he was waiting _for._

"It's fine, Ron," Ginny said with a low volume and a sharp tongue. She then started to mimick Harry and stuffed her mouth full as a means to disengage from the uncomfortable topic.

"How was your meeting with McGonagall?" Ron asked.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief – happy to not be the one who brought it up. If she'd asked, she would have undoubtedly been further accused of bringing up inappropriate topics, but because it came out of Ron's mouth, it was deemed perfectly innocent.

Harry's brows twitched almost reflexively. When he finished chewing and swallowing his food, he removed the napkin that had been sitting in his lap and placed it next to his plate with a heavy sigh. "Hogwarts has been having problems over the past year with potion ingredients being stolen."

He paused, obviously waiting for questions or jests, but the table remained focused on listening. At first, Harry was curious as to why McGonagall had called him personally to handle something so seemingly minute, but it wasn't until a few minutes into their meeting that he realized just how dire the situation actually was.

"It started off as small, inconsequential items," he resumed. "And Prefects were randomly assigned to stand in shifts, taking guard of the positions classroom. But ingredients kept going missing, and no one was seen doing it."

"How is McGonagall certain that it's not been a Prefect?" Hermione asked, the wheels in her head already turning.

Ron laughed and agreed with his fiancée. "'Mione's right. It's not the first time a student has helped themselves to the potions storage at Hogwarts." The trio all shivered at their collective memories of their kleptomania when it came to their tendencies for _extracurricular_ potion brewing. "Why get the D.M.L.E. involved?"

The weight of the room further dropped into a heavier, chest compressing sensation when Harry's mood hadn't brightened at the fond reminder of their admittedly precarious childhood activities. His left hand flexed into a fist before loosening and tightening again, the faded scar from Umbridge's quill catching in the light – another, darker reminder of their aforementioned childhood activities.

"The volume's gotten larger, and the ingredients are starting to become less broad." 

"What have they been taking?" Hermione asked after sensing and growing impatient to his reluctance.

"Polyjuice ingredients."

Ron interrupted the intensity with a snort. "Seems rather stupid of someone to take such obvious ingredients. Everyone knows that even the most basic security charms can recognize Polyjuice."

Ginny shot her brother a glare from across the table. When he returned with an innocent _"What?"_ and a shrug of his shoulders, she rolled her eyes, scoffed, and slumped back into her chair.

Harry reached over and absently started rubbing her shoulder; a small, comforting gesture that was made in an effort to alleviate both of their tension.

With everyone finished with their meals and the tapered candle in the center of the table shrinking before their eyes, a sense of stillness seemed to settle over the dinner party – and yet, Hermione couldn't seem to fight off the pit in her stomach.

"Is there any reason why McGonagall let it go on for over a year before asking for help?" She asked, insatiable for answers and any clues that may lead her to the Envy.

Harry shrugged whilst trying to seem noncommittal, despite his eyes narrowing toward Hermione with a suspicious gleam.

In her peripheral vision, Ron was running his hands through his hair like he always did when stress began to claim him. "She probably didn't want anyone to think she didn't have everything under control. Big shoes to fill and all," he said dismissively.

Simultaneously, Ginny kicked him under the table while Hermione shot him a glare. Whenever he grunted at the impact, both girls' eyes met across the table and they mirrored a small smile back to one another.

"Professor McGonagall is perfectly capable of being the headmistress, Ronald. I'm sure she had a good reason for not asking for help," Hermione admonished him before turning back to Harry. "Has anything else strange been going on?"

"I did a fairly thorough sweep of the grounds and found three tablets of Pleasurium – "

Ginny furrowed a brow and her face visibly twisted with confusion. "Pleasurium? The drug?" Harry nodded carefully. "At Hogwarts of all places?"

Harry nodded again, not noticing Ron's look of disbelief that was a near-perfect replica of his sister's.

Hermione then remembers the confidential reports about the drug that she saw on Ron's desk at work back in May. At the time, he'd teased her for snooping through his desk and looking in confidential files, but she swiftly reminded him that it wasn't snooping if his desk was constantly littered with open files of various levels of required security clearance.

In the reports, she remembers an illustration of a small, pink tablet that looked like a common muggle pill, but the document described it as tasting like a breath mint. Intended to be ingested by way of dissolving under one's tongue, the result was a temporary increase in libido and artificially heightened feelings of lust.

Although not as intense or as long-lasting as Amortentia, Hermione deduced that it was the magical equivalent to a muggle date rape drug – but instead of being a depressant like rohypnol, the case file detailed that Pleasurium acted as a stimulant.

In the past, traces of the drug were commonly found on the floors and entryways of the bars, pubs, and brothels that lined the streets of Knockturn Alley; but it wasn't surprising, considering that Hermione was willing to bet that the drug was likely displayed and sold at the checkout counters of Knockturn's seedy apothecaries and chemist shops.

She recalled one of the final lines at the bottom of the case file that said one dose of Pleasurium could last a few days depending on the purity of it's ingredients, and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why someone would want to have an insatiable libido for days on end without any sleep.

Suddenly, the realization of what could happen if the children at Hogwarts got their hands on such a drug hit her like a tidal wave. The D.M.L.E. worked hard to keep it all under wraps, but that was when it was an _'adult'_ issue. Now, she'd instantly grown skeptical that it'll remain that way for long if drugs were being found on school grounds.

"Isn't that one of the drugs that your departments were investigating before the whole Goyle thing?" Ginny asked, pulling Hermione from the dark memories that started to plague her. When Harry returned her question with a simple nod, Ginny smiled and attempted to rein in on the intensity of the discussion. "Why would a bunch of teenagers need help with their libido?"

Much to his dismay, Harry blushed and Ron groaned in response. "Please, Harry, even though you're both adults, I like to pretend that you're not actually shagging my sister! And if you were smart, you definitely wouldn't talk about shagging her when we were all still at Hogwarts!"

Harry was as red as Neville's old Remembrall as he visibly fought the urge to hide his face in his hands, while Ginny's eyes glinted and she smirked over at Hermione.

The whole group burst into a fit of much-needed laughter, and after they all caught their breath, they gathered their plates and cutlery and filed into the kitchen.

Along the way, Ron found a small photo album of Ginny and Harry's vacation that they took back in July, where he'd asked her to marry him on a picturesque dock in Crete, surrounded by sailboats – another muggle invention that the Weasley patriarch spoke fondly of. Harry's plan had been entirely intentional, using the backdrop to pay homage to her father.

When Ginny saw her brother pull the album from the shelf, she walked over to join him, teasing and saying something along the lines of "hey, be careful which page you flip to! There's a reason that thing isn't displayed on the coffee table!"

Harry was chuckling when Hermione joined him by the sink, grabbing a hand towel as she made her way over to begin drying the dishes. "It feels good to be able to laugh again," Harry muttered, a hint of a reluctant smile turning up at the corner of his mouth.

"It does."

After the scrubbing and drying drew to a close, Hermione peeked over at the kitchen island where Ginny and Ron were still enthralled by the photo album – Ginny excitedly pointing out landmarks to her brother before flipping a page and showing him the umpteenth photo of her ring despite it being proudly displayed on her finger in front of them.

Ron was a good brother. Annoying at most times, but a good brother nonetheless.

"I'm worried about those pills, Harry," Hermione whispered over to her friend, mindful of her volume. Out of anyone else in the group, she knew Harry wouldn't scold her for obsessing over the sensation of lingering danger and conflict. "You said you found three of them? Where were they?"

Harry took pause from toweling off the water on the countertop and searched her eyes for a split second before swallowing. He casually returned to his task and whispered back, "One was in the corridor outside of the potion's classroom, one was just outside the courtyard, and..." His voice trailed off, but just as Hermione was looking up at him, he blinked, worried his lip, and then sighed before hanging the damp rag over the sink faucet. "The last one was on the front step to Hagrid's Hut."

Hermione's heart stuttered. It was all too intentional. Too precise.

"You visited Hagrid's Hut?" She forgot her volume and the words came barreling out of her before she had a chance to stop them.

Ginny abruptly froze mid-sentence, and both she and Ron looked up at Harry and Hermione from the photo album.

Ron did a double take toward his sister before the trio saw her eyes temporarily glaze over and Hermione immediately realized her mistake. Harry and Ginny had seen Hagrid's body, and not a full day prior, Ginny had been the one to discover her own father's body.

It was as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her – Ginny sucked in a labored gasp before the onslaught of tears began pouring down her face. Covering her mouth with her hand, she bolted up from her seat and rushed out of the kitchen, muttering "sorry, excuse me," between sharp, shallow breaths.

The boys exchanged solemn nods before Harry also excused himself, turning toward Hermione for a hug and wishing them both a goodnight as he followed after his fiancée.

"Gin!" They heard him call after her, his voice fading as he ran further down the hallway.

* * *

Hermione and Ron didn't wait to apparate back to their new flat after the depressing conclusion to dinner at Grimmauld Place. They'd called the new flat home since August, and while Hermione had initially been hesitant to leave Molly and George all alone at the Burrow, she regretted to admit to herself that she felt some relief when Ron told her that the lack of sleep was driving him mad.

Their flat was small and cramped, but she hardly noticed since nights like these – where she was home before sundown – were rare. Besides, it was the best that could be done with her single income while Ron finished his auror training, and even though it didn't look like it had been ripped directly from the pages of _Magical Homes & Enchanted Gardens, _it felt nice to be independent.

She laid in bed, her back against the headboard while holding a book in her lap and succumbing to the story within it's pages.

When Ron turned the corner into the bedroom from the bathroom, Hermione's attention was aggressively stolen by the painful sounding smack of Ron's shoulder against the doorframe; a mumbled curse followed.

"We need to move into a bigger place," he grumbled as he slid under the sheets.

"Yes, maybe someday soon," Hermione agreed with a wistful sigh and turned her focus back to her book. "After the wedding," she absently tacked onto the end.

She felt his palm trail across her abdomen as he snuggled against her, kissing her arm. "And when is that going to be?" He asked with a voice caked in hope.

Hermione blinks once and then looks down at her fiancé, who's resting his head on her arm as he innocently peers up at her.

"What?" She asked.

Ron returned the blink, confused. "The wedding?"

"Oh," she sighed and turned back to her book with a robotic preciseness to her movements. "I'm not sure, maybe once you graduate and we can afford a wedding?"

Ron laughed. "Bill and Fleur's wedding was nearly free. Really, they just had to pay for the food, and even then, mum and dad argued with them about taking the cost."

Hermione wasn't hasty to respond, eyes still trained on the pages but no longer reading. "Well I'd really like to have the money to take a nice honeymoon as well."

Ron pressed his lips to the freckles on his fiancée's shoulder and growled playfully. "A honeymoon _does_ sound nice." His hand glided north, fingertips finding their way beneath the hem of her pyjama top and dancing across the skin below her navel.

Dropping one of her hands that had been supporting her book, she stopped his from being able to move up any further. "But it would be _most_ responsible for us to have enough money for a down payment on a larger home."

Ron groaned and pulled away. "And so we're back to the start."

Still feigning focus on her book, Hermione chuckled at his easy concession.

After only a few seconds of quiet, Ron thought aloud again, certain that this idea was just as genius as the last. "Well, we're already used to living on just your income, so maybe we can keep doing that for the first year after I'm officially hired. We can save my paychecks, and then we'll be able to do all three things by the end of next year. Wedding, honeymoon, _and_ house!"

Hermione gave him a half-smile and a noncommittal nod, resigning only a fraction of her attention after thinking she'd yet again won another pointless argument.

Ron's heart jumped at her agreement and he swiftly plucked the book from her hands and set it aside. Before she was able to chastise him, he'd already taken her chin between his thumb and index finger. Turning her head to face him, he pressed his lips to hers and engaged her in a heated kiss.

She'd always regarded his kiss as a strange sensation. It was never chaste and pure like Victor Krum's single kiss he'd given her on the night of the Yule Ball, nor was it slobbery and desperate like Cormac McLaggen's had been in sixth year. It wasn't like... any other kiss she'd ever had in her life.

At some point, she began to wonder if something was wrong with her. Ron never hid how much he enjoyed kissing her or making love to her, but none of it ever felt like how the fairytales had described it when she was a child.

As cliché as it sounded, there was no spark. No magic.

Still, Ron was her best friend. He was kind and dependable and safe. He'd stood by her side on the best and worst days of her life, and somehow loved her all the same. At the end of the day, she had no qualms in reciprocating that kind of love and dedication. And that sense of security had to count for something. Right?

"Then a baby?" he muttered against her lips after pulling away for air.

Hermione was immediately snapped back into reality.

"What?" She asked pointedly, pushing him away by his shoulder and repeating the question in her head to make sure she'd heard him right.

Unfortunately, she had.

Her jilted lover gave a defeated sigh and rolled his eyes – already knowing where the mood was headed. Defensively, his demeanor became sour. "It's nothing we haven't talked about before. What's wrong with you, 'Mione? You've been acting so strangely for months now."

Her breath caught in her chest and she felt an emotional heat casting across her face and down her neck.

Everything!

She wanted to scream until she ran out of breath, and she wanted to yell that _everything_ was wrong!

According to the Minister of Magic, no one took her seriously, her job was monotonous and made her the least fulfilled she'd ever felt in her life, their apartment was miniscule and uncomfortable, and at the end of the day, none of it was worth it because she could hardly pay their bills anyhow!

And none of this even edged on the periphery of the fact that people were still missing and dying and that there was recent confirmation of another murderous wizard on the loose! And _she_ felt like the crazy one for caring and paying attention!

Anger came crashing down around her, cascading from the artery in her throat, through her lungs, and into her stomach. How could no one else see that everything in the world was wrong and nothing had been right for years?

She wasn't certain if she wanted to cry or scream or hex someone. Her forearm began to burn, and as a byproduct, she felt her hands start to shake. She hid them below the blankets. She didn't want to talk about it.

Then, Ron's voice pulled her back from her inner monologue.

"It's just that... it's been _weeks_ since we've – "

"I just have a headache," she cut in, already knowing what he was going to say before he'd even opened his mouth. She rolled over, facing away from him and then turned off the lamp on her nightstand – effectively dismissing the conversation.

Ron gave a defeated sigh. "I just miss you, 'Mione."

To her surprise, his statement ended there. There was no anger or condescension. He maintained his rare silence and simply mirrored her as he switched off his light; she felt him shift against the mattress, turning over with his back to her.

It's a rare occasion for Hermione Granger to feel guilty about putting her fiancé in his place after one of his childish fits – but this was one of those times.

Begrudgingly, she turned her head and spoke over her shoulder – trying to come up with words to soothe him and to simultaneously rid herself of the guilt. "If I'm feeling better tomorrow, we can. I'm sorry I haven't been myself lately."

Ron held his tongue for a few seconds, and Hermione began to worry that she'd really upset him this time – but before she could finish the thought, he turned back over and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. A small gesture that _should_ have been comforting and alleviating of their tension.

"I know, 'Mione," he whispered into her hair before kissing her temple. "This has all been taking such a huge toll on us. And you're so strong. But things will get better soon."

The hardships of her week came rushing back to her like a rogue bludger, and all she could hear were no longer the promises and reassuring words of the wizard laying next to her, but the claims that Kingsley made against her focus and work ethic. Her thoughts began the vicious cycle that paved the way into feeding her overwhelming, paralyzing fears of inadequacy and helplessness.

As if sensing her mind racing, Ron squeezed his arm around her waist and softly kissed the back of her head, giggling a bit when her wild curls tickled his nose. "I promise."

When she finally fell asleep, her nightmares were plagued with faces of the dead. They always were.


	4. three

**8 September 2000 - 2:44 p.m.**

The days that followed Hermione's meeting with Kingsley were spent poring over the countless news articles that once swallowed the walls of her office; beige that had been covered by black and white and moving photographs reemerged as beige once more, and she wasn't sure which of the two felt more likely to swallow her whole.

Strung along the perimeter of the room, she had arranged a timeline. Careful and meticulous, she paid close attention to the dates and mentions of the Envy - the first of which was brief and occurred just after the war when the dark wizard in question had been little more than a rumor, whispered from one ear to the next and a chill down any unsuspecting spine that heard the name. 

She'd already started to collect old case files from the D.M.L.E. archives. Initially, she kept her scope limited, only wanting articles that pertained to the dark wizard directly, but when she returned with only a small stack of folders that contained minimal information, she decided to broaden her search. Her second visit to the D.M.L.E. Records Office earned her even more quizzical passing glances than before - the young wizard at the check-in desk asking if something was wrong with the previous records that had been obtained. "No," she told the boy at the time, no older than seventeen and most likely completing volunteer hours in exchange for a letter of recommendation for the Auror Academy. "Just wanted another look around."

She'd expanded her field of reference to include the reported activities of any dark witch or wizard from the moment the Second Wizarding War ended, all the way through to the past week. It was with a sigh that she admitted defeat to herself - and only herself - when she realized that the broader inquiry to include  _ any  _ activity, as well as any activity reported with dark  _ witches _ , turned up only a marginal amount of additional files.

Suddenly, Hermione recalled the topic of discussion over the dinner that they'd had at Harry and Ginny's house. Drugs. Potions. Missing ingredients, and lots of them.

It may have been a shot in the dark, and anyone else would have told her that she was crazy for thinking that the two occurrences were anything but isolated; however, she couldn't shake the suspicion that there had to have been at least _ some _ coincidence. She just... couldn't quite place it. Not yet, anyway.

Nonetheless, she pulled every single report related to what the D.M.L.E. had admitted to be a spike in illegal drug and potion activity over the course of the past year - and once she carried the towering stack of files that had been precariously balanced in her arms back to her hole-in-the-wall of an office, she began pinning them all onto the timeline, too.

Sure, there were more instances of unrelated activity than anything else, but Hermione Granger was nothing if not a sponge for information, and as she pinned another piece of parchment onto the wall and took a step back to take it all in, she took a deep breath before the sound of the doorknob rattling startled her. 

"Looks like I caught you in another fit of compulsion," the freckled redhead said with a broad smile as he enveloped her in his arms and rested his chin on the cloud of curls on her head. 

Hermione decided against nitpicking his choice of words, despite them feeling rather backhanded. Mere weeks after the end of the war, she had encouraged Harry, Ron, and many others to start going to see a psychologist to get a better handle on the ways that all of the death and bloodshed had affected them; for most, her advocacy for their mental health fell on deaf ears. Harry admitted to only going once and Ginny twice, but Ron had gone with Hermione at least ten times. It was more than she'd originally guessed - in fact, about nine more - and while he didn't seem to explicitly gain any sort of benefit from it, the fact that he was going at all had given her copious peace of mind. 

Along the way, he'd picked up what he’d referred to as  _ 'mood words' _ in an attempt to help her traverse the tumultuous landscape of her own mind and emotions. It started off as endearing to hear him say terms that belonged in the glossary of a psychology textbook, which in turn had become impressive in its own right. Until it wasn't anymore.

There came a point when his words of comfort began to feel overly analytical, and like he personally was taking on the trouble of diagnosing her, despite still actively attending sessions together. It had all culminated into a brief, strange passage of time where they'd be discussing issues or memories related to the war and he would say something cute and helpful like _ 'I think the psychologist was right about your trauma responses, you should bring it up in the next session,' _ which turned into  _ 'just because you have abandonment issues doesn't mean I can't go to the Leaky with the other bloody trainees after training today!' _

It was a time when it would have been in their best interests to increase the frequency of their sessions and perhaps even encourage Ron to attend a few on his own, but the visits with the psychologist came to a screeching halt when Arthur and Hagrid's bodies appeared. Whenever they'd all arguably needed it most. 

"When you aurors do it, it's _ 'investigation,' _ but when I do it, it's  _ 'compulsion?' _ " She asked through the sound of him inhaling the scent of her hair and innocently running his hands down her sides.

"You're not an auror, are you?" There was an obvious sound of a smile on his lips.

More than anything, she wanted to say 'neither are you,' but she rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. It was obvious that his words held no malice, but no matter how much they stung, Hermione acquiesced to the voice in the back of her head telling her that it wasn't worth starting an argument over.

"What are you working on?" He loosened his arms from her waist and then sidestepped her to make his way over to the wall. 

"Still trying to find evidence of the Envy," she supplied, hoping that with her easy admission that he'd let it go. Following Goyle's hearing, that topic in particular had become a stress point in their relationship. He told her time and time again that he supported her no matter what, and while he insisted that he thought her efforts to try and remove capital punishment from infractions of the I.S.S. were admirable, the times that he spent questioning her motives were less than fleeting.

After several prolonged seconds of glazing over the parchment that lined the wall, Ron’s hands found their way to his hips when he turned to look back at her, his face written with more perturbation than she remembered haunting his features in a long time. 

“Still?” He asked.

“ _ Still? _ ” She echoed. “It hasn’t even been a week - I’ve only started.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it again, blowing out the match of whatever he was about to say that had been sure to inflame her. Instead, he replaced his expression with a rare demonstration of… sorrow? Pity?

After the war, she’d grown to hate it when people gave her looks of pity. She lost her childhood fighting to defend a world that she’d spent less than half of her life in. She lost family, friends, and practically her parents, too. Never once during the entire course of the war did she allow herself to have a momentary lapse into some idyllic fantasy that everything would be okay. From the beginning, she knew what war was all about. Wounds. Scars. Death. Loss. 

But there had been a trade-off. For every drop of bloodshed, there was an exchange. She learned to fight. She learned to survive. She earned glory. And she wanted none of it. 

She held immeasurable jealousy toward the people who could allow themselves to live in the aforementioned idyllic fantasies of their formative years. Even on their best days, while their friends were still learning to master the art of  _ ‘swish and flick,’ _ their childhoods were spent in the library researching Dark Magic far beyond the scope of what should have been accessible to any eleven year old. The worst day of a child’s life should have been measured by a failing test score, or finding out their crush was taking someone else to Hogsmeade over the weekend, but the worst days of _ their _ lives had been measured in death and flashes of green light. 

“Well, yeah, but- ” he brought his hand to the back of his head and looked down at the floor. “I just sort of figured - _ err,  _ hoped, that you would have moved onto something else by now.”

Hermione wanted to laugh but the noise that forced itself from her throat sounded more like she’d been hit in the stomach with a bludger. “Ronald Weasley, I’m going to give you another chance to try that again, and- ”

“Hey! Both of you are here, brilliant!” Harry poked his head past Hermione’s office door, and she wasn’t quite sure if she was grateful or agitated with the interruption.

Ron and Hermione gave their friend a perfunctory greeting as his arrival sliced through the tension of the room. 

Harry nodded in the direction of the back wall, the one that acted as the center of the timeline and which easily contained the most concentrated bulk of parchment and  _ Prophet _ clippings. “Still on this?”

Hermione released a contemptuous breath before bringing herself to deign a response to the repeated question, carefully assessing all angles just to make sure  _ she  _ wasn't in the wrong somehow – but she wasn't. No. She hardly ever was. 

"That's what I said," Ron replied to his friend. "But I don't- " 

"I think it's great, Hermione." Harry smiled at her and she felt her boiling blood reduce to an aggressive simmer. "I think that once you get it all pieced together, it'll be a huge help to the department and we'll all be even further in your debt."

Harry's smile, while growing more and more rare these days as it had during the height of the war, was unavoidably contagious. He had a way about him that that wouldn’t necessarily bring a sense of calm to any situation, but rather a sense of security. Safety. Reassurance. 

With Hermione giving him a relieved grin and Ron looking at him with incredulity, their initial expressions effectively switched, Harry supplied an awkward nod. “Alright then,” he cleared his throat. “I was making the rounds to let everyone know that there’s going to be a department meeting during lunch on Monday, but the Department Head has organized some sort of food delivery, so don’t make any plans for lunch that day.”

At the mention of a department meeting, both of his friends’ faces had been wiped clean and replaced with a look of hebetude. All he did was laugh with empathy as he turned back toward the door before pausing in the threshold.

“Still good for Simmons tonight, Ron?” Harry asked over his shoulder before exiting. 

“Yeah, still on,” Ron said quietly. “Meet you there.”

After another small nod, Harry’s leave was punctuated by the sound of the doorknob clicking back into place, followed by the deafening echo that cut through the heavy silence like a knife through butter. 

“Simmons?” Hermione parroted the word with a tone that commanded her fiancé to draw his eyes away from the floor. “The muggle bar next to King’s Cross?” 

“It’s Dean and Seamus’ stag party,” he replied with a mumble, as if he was providing a satisfactory answer.

Hermione blinked. “Okay,” her tone was riddled with indignance. “And where do you plan on getting the money to go out to a bar for a stag party?”

Ron shrugged. “I thought I’d just withdraw a few galleons and have them converted to muggle money. You could come, too. Y’know, if you wanted.”

“ _ What? _ You know I don’t drink and, you know what - never mind that - where did you plan on getting the galleons?” She trained her voice to sound calmer, hoping that if she talked him through it and played along for  _ just _ long enough, he’d realize how foolish he sounded.

“Gringotts?” 

Confusion was plastered to his face like ink on the pages of  _ The Daily Prophet,  _ and the sensation of not knowing whether to laugh or to cry returned to her with full force. 

“I’m still on your account, right?” He asked after a few seconds of silence had passed between them.

Hermione started to rub her temples with her fingertips, eyes wide and breathing shallow. Perhaps if she didn’t laugh  _ or _ cry, she’d just go into shock? Perhaps she’d pass out and wake up to discover that this entire conversation had just been a dream?

“And whose money is it in our account, Ronald?”

He paused and absently began to readjust one of the straps on his uniform. 

“Ours?”

“Mine!” Her volume jumped two whole octaves as the word burst from her lips - well before his ever had the chance to close.

“What do you mean  _ yours _ ?” He questioned with a furrowed brow. “I put money in there, too!” 

“You- ” without any warning or anticipation, a rolling laugh escaped from her throat. As she leaned back to sit on the edge of her desk in order to regain her balance, her hands covered her face and she resisted the urge to scream. After she’d taken a moment to collect herself, she finished the thought, “you made a one-time deposit of 80 galleons after selling your old quidditch gear.”

“Okay, then I’ll take the money out of the 80 galleons I deposited!” He attempted to bargain as if it was the reasonable thing to do, but his defensive tone and body language implied that he knew he was in the wrong. 

“There  _ are  _ no 80 galleons for you to take from, Ronald! Those 80 galleons were put toward the  _ 180 _ galleon deposit on our flat!”

His face flickered and then his lip curled when he looked down at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“What was there to tell?  _ You _ were the one that wanted to move out of the Burrow and into our own place, and you seemed more than happy to deposit the money into my vault after I added your wand to my account registry.”

“I thought our plan was for you to take care of the expenses while I finished auror training?” 

Hermione peered over at the clock on the wall and was mortified to see that it was still only half three. She could’ve hexed herself for not having the foresight to silence the room when Harry left. 

“If you were struggling for money, why couldn’t you have just asked Harry?” Ron posed the suggestion as if Harry had been the obvious solution all along. 

Completely disregarding the fact that if it hadn’t been for Harry, neither of them would likely still be alive to even  _ have _ this argument right now - but then there was her desire to simply want to do things on her own without help from anyone. Hermione wasn’t a damsel that needed saving; she was a woman that sometimes needed some bloody help from the man she was supposed to be marrying!

“You know he would have been happy to help,” Ron continued, “Merlin knows he’s got plenty left over from his parents and Sirius.” 

“Are you- ” her hands fell to her sides before she swiftly crossed them against her chest, attempting - and failing - to calm her nerves. “Are you thick?” 

"Wha- ”

“If it’s so easy to ask Harry for money then why don’t  _ you _ ask him?” When her voice crescendoed into a shrill admonition, a rare loss of control on her part, it looked as if everything had finally clicked in Ron’s head.

He shrugged again and his eyes had found their way back to the floor. “It’s different for a bloke to ask for money from another bloke. You birds have it easier.”

Hermione scoffed as he easily confessed to such a sexist belief. Her hands found their way to her temples again and she knew that she was standing on the ledge of an even larger argument - one that she certainly wasn’t ready to dive into; not here, not yet.

"Besides," he continued, "I didn't ask you to move departments and take a pay cut."

After almost a full minute of silence so heavy that it nearly had its own gravitational pull, Hermione acquiesced. “Fine, Ron. Take your galleons and go to Simmons and have a  _ great _ time.” 

At face value, her words had given him free reign for a night of debauchery befitting any typical stag party, magical or muggle, but from the way her jaw tightened around the words and the abrupt abandonment of her argument, Ron had spent enough years with the witch to know that she wasn’t one to roll over so easily. Even if he took the freedom and ran with it, no matter how much fun he had, he knew he’d be paying dearly for it later.

With his freckled face twisted into a resentful sneer, he dropped his hands into loose, defeated fists at his sides and squared his shoulders. Hermione remained perched on the edge of her desk and watched him start to leave, but just as Harry had done before him, he paused before he made his exit. 

“Have fun working, I guess.”

“Oh, come off it, Ronald!” She chided him as she would a child. 

"No,  _ really,"  _ he bit back. "Have fun slaving away to a job that you don't even like just so you can satisfy your hero complex!"

Her eyes nearly rolled from their sockets when she heard him use another ' _ mood word.'  _ "Sure, let's pretend for a moment that I  _ do  _ have a hero complex. Why do you care? Why does it matter  _ so much _ to you that I spend my time doing the very thing that I spent my entire childhood doing?"

Ron's nostrils flared and he released the doorknob from his grip before turning back around to face her and pointing at a piece of parchment on her wall. 

_ "BECAUSE I WANTED TO FIND HIM!" _

Hermione turned her head to avoid the venomous way he was looking down at her. When she turned in the direction of where his hand was pointing, she saw that the tip of his finger led straight to the  _ Prophet  _ clipping with the headline from when Arthur's body had been found. 

"Because I've always stood in yours and Harry's shadows!" Ron's voice was hoarse as his eyes crinkled and began to release stray tears, and Hermione felt her own lip start to tremble at the sight of his weakness. 

"Because you’ve got Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived, Triwizard Champion, and Deafeator of Voldemort. Then you've got Hermione Granger: Famous Muggle Born, The Golden Girl, and The Brightest Witch of Her Age _._ And then there's their friend, Ron," he continued on his tirade. "And did you bother to read any of the articles that came out when you and I got engaged, or are you just so used to seeing your name in the papers that it doesn't faze you anymore?"

Hermione swallowed, biting her tongue to not say anything she'd regret. She knew Ron meant none of it. Not him. Not  _ her  _ Ron. 

"Well, whenever the news picked up on our engagement, they listed  _ your _ name first!" He scoffed. "And I know it sounds stupid and unimportant, and I know you're probably going to call me the  _ 'misogy-whatever' _ word that you like to use so much, but it really felt like that Skeeter bitch was twisting the knife when she practically gushed over you and your accomplishments for an entire paragraph, and then wrote at the bottom  _ 'Ronald Weasley, the youngest son of Purebloods Molly and Arthur Weasley.' _ "

"You're letting an article by Rita Skeeter affect you this way?" Hermione cut in with pronounced exasperation. "Do you have any idea the kinds of things she's written about me in the past?"

But he didn't pause, and he didn't listen. The freckles on his face that she'd fallen in love with back in third year had nearly been swallowed whole by the infuriated glow to his cheeks.

"And whenever- " he pressed his palms into the wall and let his head hang between his shoulders. "Whenever I found Goyle, do you know how  _ good _ that felt? To do something  _ significant _ for once?"

"You've done plenty of significant things! You helped Harry and I destroy that horcrux– "

"Do you know what it felt like to be the person that found and captured the first of the live Death Eaters?" He pushed away from the wall and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his robes before turning back to face her again – and for a moment, she saw the face of the boy that she loved. The face of the boy that loved her back.

"In some small, fucked up way, it felt like I was avenging them." He wiped his eyes with the other sleeve. "The deaths of dad and Fred.”

She allowed him to collect himself as she assumed his previous position of staring at the floor. After a few more sniffles and one, final clearing of his throat, she looked back up. He appeared no less angry than he had only minutes ago.

"You're right, Hermione. I'll go ahead and have fun at my friends' stag, and you can go ahead and have fun taking away the  _ one _ thing that I wanted for myself."

“That's not fair, and you know it!" She snapped, the remaining modicum of sympathy that she held for him slipping through the cracks of the marble flooring. "None of us knew that you wanted to do this, and besides, you can’t possibly think that you can find and defeat this wizard on your own- ”

“And _ you _ can?”

“It’s not realistic! Goyle was reformed and didn’t even bother to put up a fight when you took him into custody, he was- ” 

“Reformed? Do you even hear yourself right now, Hermione? He was Marked. He was a Death Eater. He wanted you dead for being a muggle born, he wanted me dead for being a blood traitor, and he would have wanted any of our future children dead for being half bloods.”

“You sound like a child, Ronald. It’s as if you weren’t at that trial at all. And if you’re so worried about dark wizards vying for our deaths, then I fail to see where the harm is in trying to find leads on the wizard that’s already killed members of our family and friends- ”

"I already told you!" He came back with a roar that was undoubtedly heard several offices over. "I want something for myself for once! Just  _ once! _ I don’t want to be the third wheel to the Golden Trio! I don’t want to be Harry Potter’s Friend or Hermione Granger’s Fiancé, or The Late Arthur Weasley’s Youngest Son! I want to be Ron Weasley: War Hero. Ron Weasley: Accomplished Wizard. I want to be Ron Weasley in the way that  _ you're  _ Hermione Granger or in the way that Harry is Harry Potter. That’s it!"

An impassive silence had seized the room, and Hermione had once again been overtaken by idescision. She didn’t know whether to be angry or sad, or if she should apologize on behalf of the emotions that riddled the man she loved. 

Ultimately, she decided to take a step toward him, but he responded with an equal step back. He held up his palms at chest-height to keep her away, and she was instantly filled with unshakeable feelings of anger and rejection so concentrated that it felt as if the only relief would be to scream.

“Don’t- ” Ron said as he backed away. 

“I’ll see you when I get home, I guess,” were the last words he said as he disappeared through her office door.

* * *

Hermione absolutely loathed the way that her childhood had forced her into martyrdom. Mention of sensational titles like  _ The Golden Girl  _ felt derivative of Harry’s loathed _ The Boy Who Lived _ and it made her feel sick to her stomach. They were reductionary of the insurmountable odds that they’d faced on a near-daily basis since stepping onto Hogwarts campus on that fateful day in 1991, and anyone that knew any member of the trio personally, knew that they all held such nicknames with distaste at best. 

She wasn’t sure how everyone had managed to reconcile their traumas to be able to look toward the future without feeling bleak disdain. She could only recall one moment in her adult life where everything hadn’t been as intense in its dullness as it all had eventually panned out to be: whenever she first accepted her job at the Ministry, whenever she signed along the dotted line of her employment contract; in that moment, she had big plans and even bigger dreams, and when she was initially offered a position that she considered to be well above her skill level, she thought she was doing something noble by turning it down. 

Instead, she accepted a role that she was overqualified for, reasoning that with her talent and natural leadership abilities, she’d rise through the ranks and excel at a rate which had never been seen before. Why couldn’t she? She wasn’t a  _ War Hero _ . She wasn’t  _ The Golden Girl _ . She was Hermione Granger, and that alone was worth more than any unwanted title that had been bestowed upon her in the interim of earning what she’d  _ actually _ wanted all along:  _ Hermione Granger, Minister for Magic. _

She never wanted to be handed things on a silver platter with the mention of her name or her unrelated accomplishments of times passed. She wanted the satisfaction of being able to say that she’d earned everything life had given her. Sure, there were days when she nearly regretted turning down that first job offer. She’d be further along in her career, she’d have more money, and possibly a nicer flat. Things could have been different- 

Hermione caught herself. That was all in the past, and everything was as it was meant to be. She knew that she’d still get what she wanted in the end, and when she did, it would taste all the more sweeter. 

After quickly dismissing the thought, she walked around to the back of her desk and sank into the chair. Leaning back and rubbing her eyes, she took a series of calming breaths before returning to the folder of assignments on her desk; as she rifled through them, the little gold ring on her left hand felt as if it weighed a full stone, and she hated how she'd suddenly become hyper aware of it anytime she and Ron had a row. 

She didn't want to linger on the realization for long. She knew that their disagreements wouldn't last forever, hurtful as his words may be; he'd come home tonight and be more than ready to apologize and turn back into the man that was sweet and kind, and the man who'd already spent a decade of his life standing beside her through thick and thin. 

So, she did what she'd always done: resign herself to work and study until the trials of life began to unfold and solve before her very eyes. 

She reached for the first folder from the stack, and when she flipped the cover open, she wasn’t sure if she should have laughed when she was met with large, bold letters that said _ ‘Pleasurium.’ _

“Godric help me," Hermione mumbled to herself as she thumbed through the first ten pages of the report. She got to work with highlighting and underlining anything that might be useful for the prosecuting side of a Wizengamot trial; these drug-related offenses seemed to be on the rise, and she knew that this file would be the first of many. 

Somewhere along the way, she'd become so enthralled by the files that she lost track of time; being that her office had no windows, she had no other way of knowing that nighttime was approaching other than the occasional glance at the wall clock – ten 'til eight. 

The Gryffindor sighed and bargained with herself that she'd read one more file and make a couple of marks at some of the more standout aspects of the case, but she wouldn't get too wrapped up. While Ron would undoubtedly be out until the early hours of the morning, she wanted to get home to take a shower and feed Crookshanks before hopping off to bed. 

As she worked deeper and deeper into the stack of reports, the varieties and types of drugs and illegal potions grew more broad. She'd had no idea there were this many, and her naturally curious side wondered how people even came up with them all in the first place. 

The first page of the next case file was about a reclusive young wizard who lived on a generational property that was located in Broughton, a village in the far North of Scotland. 

While reading the file, she couldn't help but wonder how they'd found him in the first place. It wasn't included anywhere on the report. It simply said that the aurors had arranged for a portkey to appear a few kilometers away from the edge of his property, and when they gained access to the residence, they quickly and easily took him and his substances into custody. She scribbled down a reminder on a personal notepad to investigate the noticeable absence later. 

She flipped the page to discover a diagram of the drug in question that wasn't dissimilar to the one she'd seen on the report that gave the details of Pleasurium, and she was grateful for the consistency. 

_ 'Dragoneye' _ was printed at the top of the page in bold letters, and just below the name was the artistic depiction. Another small, pill-like substance adorned the page, but this one started off as bright yellow in the center and transitioned into a lime green around the edges with a gradient effect. 

The case went on to describe Dragoneye as a stimulant that would make the person who'd ingested it believe that they possessed immeasurable strength. It could be taken in its pill form for prolonged, but let dramatic effects – but the people who actively took it reported that they preferred crushing it into dust and nasally inhaling it, enjoying a more intense, but short-lived high. 

Hermione suspected that the use of the word  _ 'enjoying'  _ was rather liberal in this instance. 

She thumbed to the next page, expecting to find more details or additional reports specific to this drug, but it came to an abrupt halt with a blank page, as though the reporting auror had forgotten to complete their documentation; briefly, she wondered if the entire file had, in fact, been submitted prematurely - it was the only thing that made sense in terms of the large chunks of absent text.

Although she cautioned to continue with the incomplete file, she did notice that the blank piece of parchment wasn’t the last in the stack. Perhaps they’d just gotten out of order somehow? 

The following page was titled  _ ‘Dragonfire,’  _ and while it was technically a separate drug that usually would have had its own case file, a cursory glance would have suggested that they weren’t dissimilar at all. Derived from Dragoneye, Dragonfire was the exact same drug with the same effects - except that it was produced in a liquid form. Photographs from the scene showed what someone may have assumed was Felix Felicis if they’d only given it a passing eye, but upon closer inspection of the potion bottle, this liquid wasn’t sparkly; in fact, it was remarkably clear. But even through the photographs, Hermione couldn’t help but notice that something felt off about it.

According to the report, the liquid form allowed for more versatility. For whatever unknown reason, this compound seemed to be popular in underground markets, and it looked like the wizard that they’d arrested had been sitting on no small fortune from producing it. The liquid form seemed to be preferred among its users - the clearer the liquid meant higher the quality, and lifetime users of the drug had unsurprisingly built a tolerance to it which left them with no other choice. Options for consumption included oral ingestion, inhalation of the fumes, and intravenous injection. Just as the other drugs, each method of consumption had different effects based on the way one’s body metabolized it. 

Thoroughly unsatisfied with the incomplete case file, Hermione reluctantly peeked back at the wall clock. Quarter ‘til ten. She rubbed her tired eyes and worried her bottom lip with her teeth, weighing the pros and cons of staying to finish the last folder or to go home and rest. 

She mentally reviewed her checklist for the weekend, and as far as she could tell, she was completely free. A quick glance at Lupin’s old moon phase necklace also told her that she was a few days off from needing to complete any potions that had been on her personal to-do list. With her schedule clear and Ron blowing their galleons at a stag party, she saw no reason to call it a night just yet. She’d charmed Crookshanks’ bowl to act as an automatic feeder that dispensed at ten o’clock every night if he hadn’t been served sooner than that, so everything was alright on that front as well.

As strenuous as the circumstances of her home life were, this felt nice. Work was always constant and dependable, and even if she didn’t find the topic of illegal narcotics investigations to be as invigorating as uncovering the whereabouts of a dark wizard, she was thankful for the distraction all the same.

She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes and yawned, bargaining with herself that she’d finish with this last report and then head home. 

After centering the canary-colored folder on her desk, she leaned onto one elbow as she opened the flap to the first page. Lazily resting her forehead in her palm, she yawned again while reading up on a depressant potion called  _ ‘Caligo.’  _

Dark green in color, the cloudy looking potion only came in the form of a liquid. Self-professed users in the report stated that only the fumes should be inhaled, and to never ingest it orally. Intravenous use was  _ also _ advised against. Further down the page of the potion’s profile, she saw further warnings that detailed hallucinations as a side effect of overdose. 

As Hermione’s thoughts started to fade with each tick of the clock, she passively wondered how one could overdose on an inhalant. She briefly considered making a separate note, but her notepad was across the desk and she felt comfortable just how she was and she didn’t want to ruin that.

She blinked slowly once, twice, and three times before redirecting her attention back down to the page. This Caligo appeared to be the first depressant of the bunch and she was curious to read about the additional effects.

But the longer she stared at the page, the words started making less and less sense, and her eyelids grew heavier. So, she further bargained with herself that she’d rest her strained eyes before she closed down her office and headed home, reasoning that it was unsafe to travel by Floo or apparition with strained vision. 

She leaned forward into her desk and buried her face in her folded arms. Her wool blazer was a bit scratchy against her cheeks, but it wasn't necessarily uncomfortable, and the warmth it provided was just lovely. 

Completely relaxed, it wasn’t long before her thoughts began to drift away from drugs and war and Ronald Weasley. 

Taking another long, relaxing breath, she succumbed to zen. 

* * *

Hermione woke with a start.

At first, she thought that she was in the middle of a dream until she felt the drool at the corner of her lip, which she immediately wiped away with her sleeve. 

The lights in her office were still on and bright, and she was amazed by how she’d been able to fall asleep in the first place. She didn’t linger on it long, though, because her first line of business was that she needed to get home to Crookshanks. 

Taking a final glance at the wall clock, she’d hardly had time to register that it said 2:07 a.m. before the doorknob at the front of the room rattled. 

She was startled at first, but then the memories of the previous afternoon centered around her fight with Ron came rushing back to her. Then, she felt guilty because Ron had probably gotten home and discovered that she wasn’t in bed, so he came rushing to the one place he was certain to find her. 

She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes again before she felt around in her pocket for her wand to unlock the door from her seat.

And then the knob rattled once more - more violently this time.

“Merlin, he’s pissed, isn’t he?” she whispered under her breath. “It’s just a simple alohamora,” she called out, knowing that her voice would easily carry through the paper thin door.

A pause followed, and in the moment that her office door swung open, she regretted not being more diligent about finding her wand.

The last thing she felt was the truest, most visceral, heart-pounding terror that she’d experienced since the war. 

The last thing she saw before her consciousness faded was a figure draped in a black cloak, and an intricate, silver mask.


	5. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief disclaimer, the flashback scene in the beginning of this chapter borrows a few lines of dialogue from Chapter Nine of The Half-Blood Prince in order to maintain continuity.

**2 September 1996 - 8:52 a.m.**

"Polyjuice potion," Hermione said with no uncertainty as the wizard's hand hovered over the first in a series of three cauldrons. 

"Very good! And its uses?" Professor Slughorn asked from the front of the classroom, standing behind the desk that held three bubbling cauldrons whose contents were being used as their introduction to the new term. 

"It's used to allow the drinker to temporarily take on the appearance of a witch or wizard, or – anthropomorphic creature," she stuttered as she tried not to recoil at the memories of her second year. "Whoever's DNA the drinker adds to the potion is the person he or she will morph into," she finished. 

"Excellent," Slughorn commended her with a grin and small nod of his head. He scanned the captive audience before him: four Slytherins, three Gryffindors, four Ravenclaws, and a couple of Hufflepuffs, too. He was pleased with the varied collection of students, and he had no reservations with showing it. 

"Alright," he motioned his hand above the second cauldron, containing a clear, odorless liquid. "Could someone tell me- "

Hermione's hand shot up, and a few snickers could be heard from behind her, but she paid them no mind.

"Yes?" Slughorn asked with a raised brow. 

"Veritaserum, sir," she answered just as confidently as before. Mention of this particular potion similarly triggered unpleasant memories, but not just for her, seeing as how Harry also appeared to bristle in the seat in front of her. While they'd all had less than charming run-ins with Umbridge, Harry had undoubtedly taken the brunt of it. 

"It's a truth serum," she continued before Slughorn had the chance to ask her to elaborate. "Even the smallest dose would have the drinker revealing their most intimate secrets with no ability to stop- " 

"Not entirely true," a smug voice cut in from the table behind her, and when Hermione turned around, she was met with the equally smug expressions of Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott. "The caveat with Veritaserum is that the drinker's sanity and perception of reality are factors in the validity of their honesty," Malfoy said. 

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Malfoy? You and the rest of your _Inquisitorial Squad,"_ Ron interjected, saying the title as if it was an insult. 

Hermione shot him a look. Now wasn't the time to get into a spat with Malfoy of all people. Snape might be gone, and while Slughorn seemed well enough at their first impression, he was still a Slytherin and historically, Slytherins always supported their own. 

Before Ron was able to protest her glare, Ernie Macmillan, who had been sitting to Harry's left, raised his hand. "So it's not a truth serum at all then?"

"Of course it is!" Slughorn declared. "The concept of truth all comes down to a matter of perception, so both answers are correct."

He made a similar motion above the third cauldron as he did with the first and second, except this one was lidded. Just as Slughorn's hand came down to the handle of the lid, it seemed as if everyone in the class leaned forward in their seats from the anticipation. 

The moment he'd divested the cauldron of its top, the entire room took on a heady, intoxicating scent. 

Slughorn opened his mouth to speak – Hermione assumed to ask for a volunteer to tell the class what the potion was – but she didn't bother with it. With her mind and senses pleasantly fuzzy from the smell of the potion, she skipped the pleasantries of raising her hand and waiting her turn. 

"Amortentia," she said, sounding almost breathless despite her attempt to feign composure. "It's the most powerful love potion in the world!"

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?"

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," said Hermione enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us. For example, I can smell old books, spearmint, and– " 

She turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence, certain that she felt a pair of eyes burning a hole in the back of her head.

“May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione’s embarrassment.

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Granger? _Granger?_ Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir. I’m muggle born, you see.”

Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them snickered, but Slughorn showed no dismay. On the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting in front of her.

“Oho! _‘One of my best friends is muggle born, and she’s the best in our year!’_ I’m assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry beamed.

“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially. Malfoy scoffed, but briefly retrained his expression into a smirk when he leaned over to Nott again, who lifted a brow and rather unsurreptitiously scanned her up and down.

Not noticing the conniving snakes behind her, Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really tell him I’m the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”

“Well, what’s so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, sounding defensive and looking outwardly annoyed by the attention she was both giving and receiving – neither of which involved him. “You _are_ the best in the year – I’d’ve told him so if he’d asked me!”

Hermione smiled slightly and held a finger to her lips, as if telling him to ‘shh!’

Ron didn’t attempt to hide how disgruntled he felt by her writing off his compliment. He crossed his arms and leaned forward onto the desk, propping himself up on his elbows with a huff.

“And just _who_ put vinegar in your tea this morning?” She whispered over to Ron whilst Slughorn resumed his lecture about N.E.W.T. requirements for the class. Normally, she wouldn’t dare to speak while a teacher was teaching, but it seemed that she’d already fallen into the professor’s good graces - even after learning of her blood status. 

He mumbled something incoherent, and Hermione’s good mood had suddenly evaporated like potion fumes. 

“Is this because Harry said something nice about me?” She’d halfway expected Harry to turn around and acknowledge the sound of his name, but he was oddly enthralled by his tattered old copy of _Advanced Potion Making,_ and Hermione momentarily - unintentionally - grimaced at the condition of the textbook.

“You’re always taking compliments from other blokes, but never from me,” he said. “I give you plenty of compliments, and you always act like you did just now!” 

_‘That’s because you never give me compliments unprompted,’_ was what she wanted to say, but instead she bit her tongue, told him to drop the subject, and then returned her attention to Slughorn.

Only a matter of seconds later, she caught the sight of a crumpled piece of parchment flying over Ron’s shoulder in her peripheral vision. She turned her head and saw Theodore Nott with a mischievous quirk to his brow while he crumpled up another piece.

Ron, with his face already beet red, began to aggressively turn in his seat and open his mouth like he planned to make a scene, but Hermione put her hand on his arm and squeezed for him to stop. 

"Better to take compliments from other blokes than to snog them, eh, Weasel?" Malfoy jeered, his hushed voice carrying over the top of his textbook and invoking another duet of stifled chuckles from him and his housemate. 

"Give Lavender our regards," Nott added in with a wink. "Adventurous witch, that one."

At the solitary mention of her blonde housemate's name, Hermione felt a sour taste in her mouth. It was no secret that Lavender Brown pined for Ronald, but in the course of twenty-four hours, he'd gone from overly dismissive of her to seeming like he was damn well entertained by her infatuated lunacy when it came to him. Not a single day prior, she bore witness to the audacious witch puffing out a cloud of hot air against the glass window of the train and writing their initials inside of a lopsided heart. 

And how dare Malfoy suggest that she'd snog other wizards while she was obviously pursuing Ron! Honestly, the implication was just –

She inhaled deeply and retrained her eyes on the chalkboard, forcing herself to read and reread ingredients that she'd memorized for a potion in her second year.

Her next class couldn’t come soon enough, and when Slughorn dismissed them, Hermione bolted from her stool and sped out into the dungeon corridor. Her next class was Arithmancy on the third floor, and while it wasn’t the most exciting subject, it required enough focus to redirect her mind onto matters more worthwhile.

She was hardly turning her first corner when she felt a broad hand grab her shoulder. 

“Hey, ‘Mione,” she heard Ron say in a low, sweet voice from behind her.

Feeling her shoulders slump in anticipation for the guilt that she knew was about to set in, she turned around to meet the sad, blue eyes of her would-be boyfriend - if he’d just realize that she was a girl, for Godric’s sake!

“Ronald,” Hermione answered with a clipped greeting, trying her best to not look him in the eye after that initial contact as to avoid what she knew would be a well-maintained crestfallen disposition.

“Hey,” he murmured with a crooked smile. “Sorry, but, Harry asked me if I wanted to join him and Gin for drills later, y’know, for the quidditch tryouts this weekend. We’re not going to be able to make it to dinner later.”

“Okay,” she replied. She hadn’t intended for her response to be so short-winded, but for the first time since discovering the Wizarding World and learning what the sport was, hearing him talk about quidditch had served as a relief to her.

Quidditch leathers.

_Of course._

Old books, spearmint, and quidditch leathers. 

“Okay?” Ron repeated. “D- did you hear me, ‘Mione? I said we weren’t going to be able to join you for dinner in the Great Hall later. But I was thinking that maybe you’d just want to go to the library instead, anyway, y’know? Get ahead on assignments like we all know you love to…”

His voice trailed off in her head.

She felt silly for not realizing it before, but _of course,_ she smelled those three things. Why wouldn’t she? Old books were probably because of all the times they’d spent in the library researching dark magic, spearmint was because that was the flavor of toothpaste she’d seen him use before, and quidditch leathers, because he’s a quidditch player. 

“Okay,” she said again, even less committed in this response than the last one. 

When they said their goodbyes, he leaned in and engulfed her in an awkward hug, and everything was as good as new. Even though he said and did some truly thoughtless things at times, she knew that _this_ was her Ron.

Immediately after catching her first whiff of Amortentia, she admittedly had trouble placing all of the smells and piecing together who they belonged to. But once she and her fellow Gryffindor parted ways on the first floor, she reveled in the comfort that accompanied the sense of confidence in her epiphany. 

Everything was back to normal.

* * *

**Present - Unknown Date - Unknown Time**

It was in her third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that Hermione realized that _time_ was a thorn in her side. With her habit of overachieving coming by her naturally, her frustration had reached an all-time high at the tender age of thirteen, when her desired timetable was proving to be unattainable. It wasn't that she couldn't handle all of the assignments – _goodness, no –_ but it was the simple fact that there weren't enough hours in the day to attend all the classes that she wanted. 

Suffice to say, one of the happiest days of her childhood was when she was presented with a time turner to make it all the more manageable. Of course, it had also provided the small convenience of being able to save a life or two that year, but ever since befriending Harry and Ron, saving lives had become second nature to her. 

What she didn't know was that when she was given the time turner, she thought all of her time-related problems had been solved. Little did she know that they were only just beginning. No matter how often she tried to analyze the concept of time – and it was exactly that: _a concept –_ it was the one subject where it didn't matter how close she thought she got to solving it, because the answer would always slip away at the last possible second. 

And that was the trouble with it all. With time and the war. There were many instances after that fateful day in the Spring of 1998 that she looked back and felt that she and her friends had been doomed all along. In retrospect, they had acted as bishops, queens, and knights in the chess game that was the Second Wizarding War, but what they didn’t realize was that they’d also been pawns in a much larger, ongoing battle. Made to be sacrificed. Expendable. 

There had always been more lingering beneath the surface, and the fact that no one - not even _she -_ had noticed it was incomprehensible to her. 

The Second Wizarding War had no conceivable start or finish, and Hermione had lost count of how many sleepless nights she’d dedicated to deciphering it all. There was no clear start or finish to the First Wizarding War, either. Voldemort had only picked up where Grindelwald left off, and then went into hiding until Harry had been born - and was the birth of a baby even an appropriate marker to identify the start of a war? 

Although she supposed that she needn’t give that thought much further assessment, taking muggle history under consideration.

And then there was what everyone thought was the final day: the second of May, 1998. A Saturday. A battlefield soaked in blood and covered by rubble, all beneath a broad sky that had been blackened by smoke and dark magic. 

When it was all over, the moment Voldemort’s cold eyes and lifeless corpse fell to the flagstone, she had celebrated with the rest of them. Why wouldn’t she? 

Beyond that day, when the reports of found bodies and lost war heroes began to roll in, what she didn’t, couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ understand was why everyone - even friends and family of the missing and the dead - had considered the Battle of Hogwarts to be the end of the war. Sure, when the final wand fell on the battlefield and there had yet to be a definitive count of survivors, no one knew any better than to think it had all ended there. Why wouldn’t they?

Much like a true infestation, ridding one’s home of the larger pests that lingered at the surface level rarely took care of the problem. There were always smaller, more minute colonies lying in wait, biding their time to begin the process of spreading their contagion all over again.

Hermione woke with a start.

At first, she thought she was in the middle of a dream until she felt the drool at the corner of her lip, which she immediately wiped away with her sleeve.

Her heart felt as if it was about to claw its way from the confines of her ribcage, beating with a pressure that felt like it was only a few thumps away from cracking a rib and proving her hypothesis to be correct.

She sat up in the bed-

Bed?

Was it possible that she was still dreaming?

Instinctively, she pulled her knees tightly against her chest and wrapped her arms around them as she took in her surroundings. It was immediate that her mind wanted to run away from her and start firing off possibilities about where she was and who-

The memory of a silver mask flashed across her temporal lobe and a paralyzing chill coursed down her spine. 

She felt the need to gulp for air, like her lungs were being constricted. 

_No,_ she told herself. _You need to relax._

What was it that her psychologist always told her to do when she felt a panic attack coming on? 

She took a deep breath and scoured the recesses of her psyche to deliver the bravery that she’d always seemed to keep on tap when she and her friends faced terrifying situations such as these, but this wasn’t like any of those times at all, was it? She wasn’t with Harry or Ron, and they certainly had never been kidnapped to wake up in a strange bed and- 

Hermione brought her wrist up to her cheek to wipe an errant tear when she saw, much to her horror, that she wasn’t wearing the same uniform that she was certain she’d been captured in.

She wrapped her arms around herself, then brought her palms to her chest and let them travel down while applying pressure, feeling for bruises or tenderness, or any other physical sensation indicating if she’d been raped or otherwise battered - and when her fragmented assessment concluded with no physical harm had come to her, she pulled her knees back into her chest.

Grounding. That’s what her psychologist had called it. She looked around the room, trying to analyze it with a careful eye, but everything was so bright and white that it was hard to make out little more than shapes through the haze of her blurry vision which was still adjusting from the combination of exhaustion and adrenaline. 

Alright. She knew for certain that there was a single bed because she was sitting on it, and as far as she knew, she’d slept on it, too. Another cursory glance over the perimeter of the room concluded that, while tiny and lacking windows, it was in no apparent state of filth or disrepair. Also in the room was a chest of drawers against the wall that faced the bed, an uncomplicated looking vanity and chair against the far wall, and a bedside table with a digital clock to her left.

When the thought of time had suddenly arrested her again, her hand shot up to her throat, immediately feeling for the woven chain that she’d kept around her neck since the Battle of Hogwarts. She felt much relief when the pads of her fingers grazed the silver necklace through the material of the shirt she was wearing, but the important part was the pendant. After successfully fishing it out from beneath her shirt collar, she allowed herself to exhale and dispel what was only a modicum of uneasiness. 

Running her thumb over the smooth front pendant, the moon was bright and clear against a dark background, meaning that it was still night time wherever she was. Or perhaps, it was night time _again_? The phase of the satellite appeared to be waxing gibbous, the same as when she’d last checked in her office, but that meant nothing; there were nominal differences in the curvature of the left half of the moon, and she estimated that only a full day had passed. Maybe less. 

It felt almost morbid for her to be allayed by another small, insignificant mercy, but she had no idea where she was or who had taken her. The simple reassurances that she hadn’t lost much time and that her body felt like it still belonged to her gave her something to focus on while she gathered her cognizance of the situation. 

With her breathing nearly back to a normal level, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and quietly padded over to the two doors that met near the corner of the room. She assumed - she _hoped_ \- that one of them was a bathroom, but a larger part of her hoped that she wouldn’t even need it. She had every intention of getting out of this room and never returning. 

Hermione tried for the door on the right first. Turning the knob was as easy as one would expect, requiring minimal effort before she heard a ‘ _click’_ that sounded off in time with a particularly heavy thump of her heart. Even though she’d guessed exactly what the room was, she could help but feel another wave of dread hit her like a _Bombarda_ when she peered in to see a plain white sink, loo, and shower. 

Willing away the new onset of panic, she sidestepped and turned to face the door on the left. With her heartbeat elevated, she gripped the knob with more pressure than the last, but when she started to twist, the momentum was met with a sudden halt. 

As if by habit, she tried again. Nothing. But it was fine. Nothing a simple unlocking charm couldn’t fix. In a move that had only become second nature to her, she reached for her wand and-

The realization that her wand was gone was sickening and yet expected, all the same. Of course they’d take her wand. Why wouldn’t they? 

She pushed away from the door and paced around the room while trying to isolate the panic that was thickening in her bloodstream. She knew that banging on the door would alert her captor that she was awake, but it could also send a signal to other captures that they weren’t alone - if there were other captures. Perhaps they could develop a way to communicate and work together on finding a means of escape; if it was a member of the Order, they could send patronuses back and forth. Although she'd never cast a patronus wandlessly before, and wandless magic was notoriously difficult to perform, that didn’t mean that she couldn’t.

Hermione held her palms out, wrists turned and faced toward the door. She fished her mind for the same memory she always used: the day she got her Hogwarts letter. The day she found out she was a witch. 

_“Expecto Patronum,”_ she recited the incantation that the DA had spent all of their fifth year mastering. Expecting to see her playful otter dash excitedly around the room, expecting to feel the familiar, warm buzz of her magic travel from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers, expecting _something,_ she only found herself at another dead end when she felt nothing except for her sense of hope slipping away.

It was a stupid idea to start banging on the door, she knew, but she had tried everything else that made sense and nothing worked. Perhaps it _would_ be as easy as another victim finding her - but even if it was only subconscious, she knew that nothing was ever that easy. Still, she made all the noise she could, banging, knocking, hitting, and shouting against the thin cedar barrier.

But her cries against the door were much like her pleas for her friends to listen to her warnings: fallen on deaf ears. Evaporated like steam. Buried alongside the mutilated corpses of the people she loved. 

When several minutes passed and she’d spent the whole time loudly beating her fist against the wood and rattling the handle to no avail, she pulled back and decided to revisit the idea of wandless magic. Wandless patronuses were difficult, she couldn’t deny, but this was a moment that she’d had no pride to swallow when it came to saving her own skin. She started trying to fire off any and every curse, hex, and jinx that would hopefully aid her escape.

_“Bombarda!”_

_“Expulso!”_

_“Confringo!”_

She was rifling through her mental rolodex of blasting and exploding spells at a startling pace. Despite her magic not responding to a single one, each incantation left her feeling more and more lethargic - like her magic was rejecting her. But she couldn’t let this happen. She couldn’t roll over and take this loss, and she refused to let _this_ be her tragic end. She raised her arms in front of her and searched her mind for a spell - any spell - that would lead her to freedom.

_“Reducto!”_

When the incantation parted from her lips, her vision began to tunnel and she felt blood rush through her ears with such ferocity that it turned into a high-pitched ringing.

Hermione’s palms flew to her temples, cradling her skull in an attempt to quell the sensation and stave off the effects that she knew were shortly to follow. She turned around and sought the bed she’d woken up in, knowing that she was about to lose consciousness again. 

The moment that her skin made contact with the grey sheets from before, she was more than prepared to succumb to the pull of her drained magic, but when an ear-splitting crack forced her tired muscles to painfully flinch to protect themselves from the shock of the sound, she caught a second wind. 

She sat up and turned her head toward the sound of apparition, but was forced to stop halfway when her entire body suddenly felt as if it had been restrained by a binding curse. 

In her peripheral vision, she caught the familiar, terrorizing flash of silver that she’d been taken by only one day prior. She heard an amused huff, followed by a tenor voice that bled into her eardrums. 

“You never learn your lesson, do you, mudblood?”


End file.
